CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Can I keep a secret? How insulting, Charles. The fact that you do not know how many I have kept is a testament to my capabilities.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, while discussing plans to surprise said gentleman’s wife.
A boom and crack sounded beyond the windows of the lovely yellow room. Thunder matched the mood of the past two hours as Phineas, Hannah, Maureen, Colin, and Sarah struggled to reconcile the girl’s past and her connection to Phineas’s father and Horatio Syder.
The white-haired butler entered with a tea tray, setting it on the table in front of the settee where Phineas sat beside Hannah, quietly quizzing her about her memories of her papa. Their papa.
Colin stood beside the window, arms crossed, staring out at the rain. Sarah sat beside Maureen, casting concerned glances between her husband and Hannah.
“There is no way Colin could have known,” Maureen murmured. “Hannah was too frightened to reveal anything.”
Sarah sighed and nodded. “Nevertheless, he blames himself for failing to see it sooner.” Her mouth quirked with a bittersweet twist. “His past weighs heavily upon him.”
Maureen did not know much about Colin’s past—only that he’d been a drunkard and a disreputable scoundrel in his younger years—but she did know that Hannah Gray had had excellent reasons for remaining hidden.
The girl’s story was harrowing. She’d lived with her mother in Bath until the age of five. Her earliest memories were of her mama taking her to buy treats at a small shop near their house. Her papa, a kindly man with eyes like hers, had brought her a new doll each time he came to visit. Those visits had been infrequent but happily memorable, as both she and her mother had adored the gentle, humorous man. He’d been ill, she’d recalled, thin and gray with increasing difficulty remembering things. Her mother had fretted about it, begging him to do more than take the waters. The last time Hannah had seen her papa, he had kissed her forehead, hugged her mother, and promised he would seek a new physician.
A short while later—weeks, perhaps—Hannah and her mother had been returning home from the little confectioner’s shop. Their customary route took them through a landscaped park with a steep hill and a long series of stone steps. It had been winter, just coming on dusk, and the steps had been slippery with frost. Hannah recounted how she had run ahead, enjoying the thought of galloping down the hill like a horse. Her mother had called after her, warning her to take care, for there might be ice.
In a thin voice, Hannah had described arriving at the base of the hill, turning back to look for her mama and seeing the figure of a man three steps behind her. She’d watched in horror as the man had shoved her mother squarely in the back. She’d screamed as her mama had landed at the bottom of the stone steps, still and crooked and open-eyed.
Then, the man had picked Hannah up, shoved something over her mouth that made her sleepy, and when she’d next awakened, she’d been inside a coach. The man had introduced himself as Mr. Syder. He’d explained that he was protecting her and that she should not be afraid.
“But I was afraid,” Hannah whispered. “He pretended to be my papa, but he was … not good. Not good at all.”
He’d kept her isolated and hidden for nearly ten years.
Hearing her recall the sickening dread with which she’d anticipated his visits, how fearful she’d been of his ever-present walking stick, Maureen had held the girl’s hand and bitten her lip until it bled. She’d wanted to cast up her accounts. She’d wanted to revive Horatio Syder and kill him again. She’d wanted to weep for Hannah’s mother and, above all, for Hannah.
Phineas had been thunderstruck, of course. He’d spoken little, listening intently to the girl he must have concluded was his sister, for her descriptions matched precisely what he’d once told Maureen about his father’s declining health. And there was no denying their resemblance—the black hair, the bone structure, the extraordinary eyes. Even some of their mannerisms were the same, a certain tilt to the head, a certain alert stillness.
During Hannah’s account, Maureen had seen bewilderment flicker through Phineas’s eyes, but she had also seen his impulse to protect the girl flare brightly.
At least, she thought it was protectiveness. Admittedly, she was less attuned to Phineas’s subtle shifts of mood than before. His opaqueness had been easier to penetrate when he had wished to marry her.
Hannah, on the other hand, appeared to have no such trouble. She responded to Phineas with reverence and rare openness. Even now, the girl sat close to him, her knee touching his, speaking more than she had done in the past year, if Colin and Sarah’s descriptions were any indication.
When Colin had asked why Hannah had chosen to enter St. Catherine’s Academy, she had replied, “I wanted to be safe. He was not good. You were the man who killed him. Therefore, you must be good. It was logical.”
Setting aside the simplicity of her thinking, Maureen had asked how she’d managed to hire Mrs. Fisher. Hannah had explained that, before his death, Syder had made arrangements with a solicitor named Mr. Chalmers to provide funds for her and to keep her well hidden. When Phineas had asked why remaining hidden was necessary, she had refused to explain further, saying only that Mr. Chalmers had been most adamant that Hannah should not remain in any one place too long. She had lost contact with him prior to entering the school.
Now, as the storm outside grew in volume, the lovely yellow room where they’d all returned to continue their conversation grew quiet. Maureen rose to pour the tea while Sarah went to whisper consolingly to her husband. Lifting the blue-and-white china teapot and filling each cup in turn, Maureen wondered whether Phineas would want to keep Hannah at St. Catherine’s Academy or bring her to Primvale so that they might become better acquainted.
She took up her cup and sat in a cerulean chair with a sigh. The matter was rather a tangle. On one hand, Hannah was his sister. On the other, Lady Holstoke was bound to balk at her dead husband’s illegitimate offspring being welcomed into Primvale Castle. The woman did not strike her as particularly motherly, even toward her own son.
Another loud crack outside made Maureen jump and her tea slosh onto her wrist. She turned toward the windows, where Colin was frowning and Sarah appeared startled. In the distance, she heard shouts. Men. Urgent.
She pushed to her feet and started toward the table, but she took no more than two steps before the doors burst inward with dreadful force, crashing into the adjacent walls. In staggered the white-haired butler, reeling backwards into the room.
Coming in after him were two men. One was enormous, garbed in black from head to toe. The other was similarly clothed and, while leaner and not as tall, he wore an expression one could only describe as lethal.
Her heart stopped. Her mouth opened. Her only breath spoke his name.
“Henry.”
He was unshaven, ragged, and soaked to the bone. He was stalking toward her with grim purpose, midnight eyes flashing in the dimming light.
He was beautiful. God, how she had missed him.
“Henry,” she said again, her voice thready, her hands and throat and stomach shaking.
He swiped the teacup from her hand. It shattered on the floor.
“Henry! What in blazes are you mmmrmph …” His mouth fastened upon hers, his chilled wet hand cupping her nape and drawing her into his kiss. He smelled of rainwater and mud. He tasted of salty marine air and Henry.
He tasted like heaven.
She clutched him desperately, yanking fistfuls of wet wool coat. Distantly, she heard other people talking. A deep, rumbling voice. Colin and Sarah asking questions. Phineas demanding answers.
But it had been weeks since she had touched him, and she needed his lips and his tongue. She needed to stroke his dripping, bristly jaw and feel his arms band her waist. Tighter. She wanted him tighter against her.
“Dunston! Good God, man, save that for later. We’ve a thing or two to settle at the moment.” It was the rumbling voice. She wanted it to be quiet.
But Henry listened. Slowly, he loosened his arms. Gently, he withdrew his lips and moved his hands to bracket her waist.
“Henry,” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”
“How much tea did you drink?”
She glanced down at the long streak of brown liquid and shattered china on the floor. “None.” Frowning, she laid the backs of two fingers along Henry’s brow. “Are you feverish again? Suffering some sort of plague that turns sane men into candidates for Bedlam?”
He grasped her wrist and laid a kiss on her palm. “No, pet. Apart from exhaustion and worry and missing my wife until I damn well want to thrash someone, I am relatively sound.” He pulled away. “We’ve come for the Investor.”
Again, she eyed the remains of her cup. “And to wage war against perfectly good tea?”
“It might have been poisoned. I couldn’t take the chance.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I thought you went to London to find the Investor. Why would he suddenly be in Dorsetshire?”
“Because Holstoke is the Investor.”
She laughed.
He did not. His brows sank low over red-rimmed midnight eyes. “Holstoke is the Investor.”
Bracing her hands on her hips, she looked first to his unusually large companion. Then, she examined Phineas’s grim glare. Finally, she looked at Henry. “You may repeat it however often you like. You are wrong.”
His jaw flexed. “Setting aside your past affections for one moment, wife—”
“Oh, do not dare to bring our courtship into—”
“All evidence indicates he is the man behind—”
“—this. Need I remind you I declined his proposal in favor of—”
“—everything. Well, perhaps his father began the traitorous—”
“—yours. Far from the easiest decision, I’ll have you know—”
“—endeavors. But it is clear he has carried on his father’s legacy.”
“—what with your lying and deceiving and misleading me for years and—”
“One need only note the connection between him and—”
“—years into thinking you were an irresistibly dashing gentleman with too many puce waistcoats—”
“—Horatio Syder’s ward. Apart from that, we have a case commissioned by—”
“—when you are really a much more dangerous sort of man. Perhaps I should have recognized—”
“—the Investor. Who bloody well is Holstoke!”
“—your deceit before you kissed me in your bedchamber, but I maintain I am ordinarily an excellent judge of character, and I further maintain—”
“Have you listened to a bloody word I have said?”
“—the Investor cannot possibly be Holstoke!”
He threw up his hands, paced away several steps, and promptly paced back again. “You are blinded by naivety and sentiment.”
She scoffed. “You are blinded by jealousy and false assumptions.” She pointed to Phineas. “He was in leading strings when your father was killed.”
Henry held up a finger. “A series of poisonings in London have been traced to the Investor. The poisons are all derived from plants. Holstoke has a peculiar interest in plants.” He raised a second finger. “A metal case full of botanical sketches featuring common poisonous plants was delivered to me from one Mr. Chalmers, a former associate of Syder who had agreed to share what he knew of the Investor. We located the man who crafted the case. It was commissioned by Holstoke.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Henry calmly raised a third finger.
“Horatio Syder’s ward—a girl for whom I have searched for over a year because I have good reason to suspect she knows the identity of the Investor—is related by blood to Holstoke, a fact made obvious by their resemblance.” A fourth finger lifted. “Of all the ladies clamoring for a titled husband during the season, Holstoke set his sights upon you.”
Maureen frowned. “What has that to do with anything?”
Henry moved closer, his thumb extending outward from his palm. “You. Are. Mine. Above all things, the Investor would wish to have you in his grasp.”
She had seen this look before. The lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. The tension in his brow and jaw. Henry had been pushed hard. Much more, and she suspected matters would end rather badly. She grasped his hand in both of hers and held his gaze without flinching. “Before we married, you took great care to persuade everyone—including me—that your affections were nothing more than friendship. Why would he assume I had any more importance to you than Harrison? Or your mother? Or Stroud, for that matter?”
“Because I am a damned besotted fool who could not keep a proper distance from you. If he knew I was the man pursuing him, then it would not take long to discover whom I treasured most. Bloody hell, he launched his attack on our wedding night, Maureen!”
A cold, sick feeling wrapped its tendrils around her stomach. Had she been wrong about Phineas the same way she had been wrong about Henry? Her eyes drifted to the other man. He was standing in front of Hannah, a scowl shadowing the ghostly green. His fists clenched and his bare forearms flexed in response to Henry’s giant companion.
Good heavens. If she’d been wrong about Phineas, then she had delivered Hannah to a monster.
But she was not wrong. Maureen might be soft. Naïve. A novice in Henry’s world of clandestine intrigue. But her instincts were sound. They had told her Henry was a good man, and he was, despite his deceptions. They told her the same about Phineas, who was peculiar and awkward at times, yet fundamentally an honorable man.
Her chin came up. No, she could not wield a dagger or a pistol. Nor could she deceive with aplomb the way Henry could. However, she possessed strengths that could be of value if only Henry would listen to her. Trust in her.
“Talking of Stroud, where the devil is he?” Henry demanded. “I told him to remain at your side like a bur on a woolen blanket.”
Her eyes flew to the doors Henry had thrown open when he’d entered. The white-haired butler leaned against the casing, rubbing the back of his head, but beyond him was an empty corridor.
The cold, sick feeling returned and grew colder. It spread from her stomach outward, chilling her muscles and skin, making the room shift and waver. “He—he and the footmen … they were supposed to be … outside the doors. You didn’t see them when you entered?”
Henry’s eyes sharpened. Hardened. He pivoted and stalked around his large companion, withdrawing a dagger from his hip and leveling the point beneath Phineas’s chin. Phineas’s only reaction was to tilt his head back and glare down his nose at Henry.
Maureen hugged herself, glancing to Sarah and Colin, who looked on in apparent dismay.
His jaw flexing, Henry asked softly, “Where are my men, Holstoke?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Come now. The game is over. Do let’s conclude matters as gentlemen.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“I’ve no wish to spill your blood in front of the ladies.”
“Then we are in agreement.”
“But I will. You are a predator, Holstoke. Like your father before you.”
Phineas’s reply was interrupted by another voice.
Soft and low, scarcely above a whisper. “Do not say such things. Papa was good.”
Sidling to see past Phineas’s shoulder, Maureen glimpsed Hannah, her skin the color of salt, her slender frame trembling. “Henry,” Maureen warned, slowly inching toward the girl. “Have a care.”
“I always do, pet.”
“Hannah,” she said softly, skirting the table where the tea sat, cold and brown in its delicate china cups. Finally, she reached Hannah’s side and held out her hands. “Here now, darling. Take my hands.”
Hannah did not reach for her, nor did she look away from Henry. “He is wrong. Papa was not bad. He was very ill, and he would sometimes forget things, but he was kind.”
“For what it’s worth, Dunston, she is right,” Phineas said flatly. “Despite the mistaken theories you’ve conjured, my father—our father—was honorable.”
Henry’s lips twisted into a bitter imitation of a smile. “So was mine. Until yours killed him.”
“I cannot believe that.”
“Why the pretense, old chap? Surely you realize you are finished. Now, tell me where my men are, and we shall have done with this.”
“I do not know where they are. And I am not this Investor, though given the evidence you cited earlier, I can see why you would reach that conclusion.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, a considering glint emerging. “Can you, now? How civilized.”
Again, Hannah interjected, “The Investor. Is that what you call Mr. S-Syder’s employer?”
Henry appeared to bite down on a response. Instead, although he kept the dagger steady at Phineas’s throat, his eyes moved to Hannah. “It is the name we gave him, yes, as we did not know his true identity.”
Hannah’s brow crinkled. She blinked once. Twice. Again. “You are wrong.”
Henry sighed. “Miss Gray, you may not wish to believe your brother is responsible for such villainy, but in time—”
“No. I don’t mean about Phineas. About the Investor.”
Henry frowned.
Maureen moved closer to Hannah, cautiously taking the girl’s hand between her own. “What about the Investor, darling?”
Ghostly green eyes turned to meet hers, blinking as though surprised by everyone’s ignorance. “The Investor is not a ‘he’ at all.”
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