Chapter Eighteen
Julius Gardyn had been torn whether or not to accept Lady Braithwaite’s invitation to dinner. On the one hand, he loathed jumping whenever his greater, wealthier neighbor called. On the other, only the select few were ever bidden to such an event. To receive an invitation to dinner from her ladyship was really a mark of status. He did not count whoever visited the castle in her absence. Rumor said that lately the Tamars had had all sorts of riff-raff from Julius’s own tenants to the vicar to eloping baronets who probably weren’t baronets at all.
In the end, he accepted, telling himself it was only to please his mother. And by the time he handed her into the hired carriage to drive up to the castle, he was in such a good mood that he didn’t even mind the expense. The trustees of the Gardyn estate had agreed to the eviction of the Benedicts from Haven Hall and to his living there while the legalities of his finally inheriting everything should be dealt with over the next few weeks.
More than that, the Conway girl Braithwaite had been flaunting around Blackhaven had proved to be a fraud. Why else would she have been skulking around the hotel alone in the dark, looking nothing like a Conway or a Gardyn. Save for the damned hair. And now rumor said she had vanished altogether. Gardyn couldn’t wait to taunt Braithwaite about that. Had the young fool really imagined he could frighten or beat him, with a red-blonde girl? Had he expected him to flee before her in shame in case she proved to be Eleanor?
Climbing in after his mother and settling into the carriage, he admitted to himself that there had been a few nasty moments. He still had no idea where Braithwaite had found her, and he did not believe for a moment that the girl was a Conway. There was no denying she looked like a Gardyn. Even his mother had spotted that. She was even about the right age to be Eleanor. But there had been no claim, no proof, only the girl’s provoking presence in the house of his enemy. She had merely been a bad hand that Braithwaite could not play.
And so, Gardyn amused himself by guessing who would be at the countess’s dinner, besides herself and Braithwaite and the Tamars. The Winslows would be there, inevitably, and probably the wretched vicar, since he had married Wicked Kate Crowmore. There was also a young baron and an old viscount staying at the hotel for the benefit of the waters. He had no doubt that they were acquainted with her ladyship.
Despite his good mood, he could not altogether avoid the sense of resentful inferiority that came over him whenever he arrived at the castle and gazed up at its ancient stone turrets. It had belonged to the same family, quite undeservedly in his view, for hundreds of years. In fact, it had been this outrage with undeserved wealth which had first driven him to politics, to widen the foundations of power. Even then, though, it had been a personal quest for his own power. An ambition he had been close to reaching before Braithwaite had breezed onto the scene, eclipsing everyone with his privilege and his naïve nonsense.
With an effort, he squashed the spurt of ill-feeling and escorted his mother up the steps to the front door. He would have enough fun with Braithwaite tonight.
However, when they reached the magnificent drawing room, it was only Lady Braithwaite who greeted them. A quick glance around the other gathered guests showed him no sign of the earl. Irritatingly, he did see the Benedicts, though he grudgingly admitted their presence did prove the importance of Haven Hall. And there, at the center of an admiring court, was the beautiful young chit the countess had brought to the castle. In Blackhaven, they were taking bets on whether or not Braithwaite would come up to scratch.
“Is Lord Braithwaite not joining us?” Julius’s mother asked bluntly. She liked the earl, could never quite lose her old habits of toadying.
“Later, I hope,” the countess said pleasantly, although Gardyn could have sworn she was furious. “He has been called away on urgent estate business, but he assured me he would be here.” She smiled, though her humor was glacial. “Wretched boy. We shall allow him another fifteen minutes, for otherwise, he will have upset my numbers.”
“Wretched indeed,” Gardyn murmured, escorting his mother to a chair by the fire, where he left her to gossip with the elderly viscount.
Promenading about the room, he exchanged distant bows with Mrs. Benedict, then paused to speak to Winslow, who hailed him heartily. It was a good place to stop, because he could see through the open drawing room doors to the gallery and thus be warned in advance of Braithwaite’s approach. He would be quite disappointed if the earl didn’t appear. It would make the evening somewhat pointless.
“Been meaning to have a word with you, Gardyn,” Winslow said confidentially, taking his arm to urge him a little away from other guests. “We have a gypsy.”
Gardyn blinked. “Do we share him?” he asked caustically.
Winslow laughed in his good-natured way. “Why yes, sort of! I cannot yet be certain, but I think the fellow can shed light upon what happened to Eleanor.”
That swiped his breath away, though fortunately, his reaction did not seem to be out of place, for Winslow patted his arm as though for comfort.
“I know, I know. Rakes it all up again, does it not?”
“I don’t understand,” Gardyn said. “I thought you spoke to all the gypsies passing in the neighborhood at the time.”
“So did we. But if we did, I don’t think we learned the whole truth.”
“What is the truth?” Gardyn demanded. “And where did you find this fellow?”
“I didn’t,” Winslow said. “Braithwaite did.”
“Braithwaite?” Gardyn hoped there wasn’t as much loathing as he felt in his voice. “What business does Braithwaite have with gypsies?”
“Well, we shall have to ask him,” Winslow said vaguely. “I just wanted you to be prepared. And your mother, also. I’m hopeful that if Braithwaite returns tomorrow morning…ah, speak of the devil.”
Gardyn jerked around, and through the drawing room door caught sight of Braithwaite, in riding clothes, and the thrice-wretched Conway girl clinging to his arm. From the opposite direction, three female children launched themselves upon the newcomers with cries of “Cousin! He found you! Oh, well done, Gervaise!”
Blushing and laughing, the girl released the earl’s arm to return the enthusiastic embraces. Over their heads, Braithwaite glanced in the door and met Gardyn’s gaze. There was no determined good nature there any more, far less the plea for friendship which had once amused Julius. Today, his eyes were hard and wintry, his mouth a thin, uncompromising line.
Gardyn had never been remotely afraid of Braithwaite—except, perhaps, of his influence. But at this moment, alarm tugged hard at his stomach. Braithwaite knew something.
But the commotion in the gallery had drawn the countess’s attention. “Braithwaite, you are not dressed!” she scolded him, hurrying across the room to the door where she was brought up short, presumably at the sight of her daughters where they had no business to be. Or perhaps at the sight of “Miss Conway”, who hugged her cloak tightly about her.
“We saw them arrive from the schoolroom window,” one of the children explained apologetically. “Sorry, Mama!” And without further telling, the three girls vanished.
The countess’s back was ramrod straight. Clearly, she had no intention of embracing anyone. “Miss Conway,” she said freezingly.
“No longer,” Braithwaite said, and Julius almost laughed. Presumably the fool had learned she was some actress, or worse, just as Gardyn had always known. “She is my wife. Lady Braithwaite – Lady Braithwaite.”
His effort to lighten the formal introduction fell on deaf ears. Even when the younger woman curtseyed, the older did not move a muscle. Gardyn knew how she felt. Without warning, the bottom was falling out of his world.
If he had married her, he must truly believe her to be Eleanor. How else would she be remotely worthy of his hand? And that, in conjunction with Winslow’s ramblings about the gypsy, was suddenly ominous.
But he would not allow it to be true. He would fight it however he could, and he never, ever gave up.
Braithwaite drew his bride’s hand through his arm and walked past his mother into the drawing room, where everyone was either gawking or moving closer for the purpose.
“Gervaise!” Lady Serena said with relief. “Oh, thank God!”
Braithwaite grinned at her, and then, with easy apology, gestured to his improper dress. “Please forgive us! We were held up but will be with you in half an hour, if my lady mother permits? Please do start dinner without us.”
“Foolish boy,” said the redoubtable dowager. “Of course I permit. I insist, since this is all for you.” Somehow, she had recovered from her shock faster than Julius. Perhaps because she had less to lose. She sailed farther into the drawing room, taking her new daughter-in-law’s free arm. “My son has spoiled my surprise announcement. Of course, my real purpose in inviting you all here tonight was to celebrate his marriage, and to introduce you formally to my new daughter.”
Gardyn could not help admiring her, for it was quite clear to him that she had had no more idea than anyone else that Braithwaite had got married. With two sentences she had squashed any scandal, though there might still be talk. Gardyn did not care.
Braithwaite’s gaze, cold once more, picked him out again. “Might I have a quick word, Gardyn? With you and Mrs. Gardyn. Mr. Winslow?”
Irritated, Gardyn would have loved to walk in the opposite direction, but just as with this boy’s father, he found himself obeying, walking to the fireplace, and escorting his mother from the room. Ably led by Lady Serena, conversation had started back up again. Everyone was delighted, either with events or with the gossip possibilities. All but one white-faced young lady whom Serena kept carefully by her side. The beauty whom Lady Braithwaite had lined up for her son.
Gardyn laughed. “I believe you are in the basket, Braithwaite,” he mocked as he passed the earl at the doorway. The dowager countess, too, was glaring at this fresh hold-up to dinner.
“We shan’t be long,” Braithwaite murmured. “We’ll step down to my office, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s on your mind, Braithwaite?” Winslow asked, not best pleased as they all trooped downstairs. “Could it not wait until after dinner.”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. Not when a crime is likely to be committed.”
Gardyn’s skin prickled uncomfortably.
“Crime?” Winslow repeated startled. “I thought you were interested in past crimes?”
Damnation, why couldn’t the fool leave things alone? Was this to do with Winslow’s wretched gypsy?
“The matter turns out to involve both past and present.” Braithwaite led the way across the hall toward the back of the house, an area Gardyn couldn’t remember ever being in. It didn’t make him feel better.
Braithwaite opened a door and stood back to allow his new wife and Julius’s mother to enter. The office was substantial, containing two desks, various cabinets, and bookcases. Ledgers and papers were piled on one of the desks. The other, closer to the cheerful fire burning in the grate, was clearer, containing what looked like the earl’s correspondence.
A man sat on one side of the second desk, gazing at them. He was a tall, lean, swarthy individual in a mended coat, with a dirty yellow kerchief tied around his throat. He might have been anywhere between forty and fifty years old. He was almost certainly a gypsy. And beside him stood a burly man who presumably was responsible for keeping him there. Several chairs had been placed around the desk.
“What’s going on, Julius?” his mother demanded. “Why are we here? It’s cold.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Braithwaite said at once, always so damnably civil. “It won’t take long, but I do feel you should be present, too. Sit here, by the fire. This,” he went on, as everyone sat in the chairs provided, “is Mr. Abraham Smith, a travelling Romany, and a horse dealer to trade. He has a story to tell. About a child taken from the garden of her home. If you please, Abe, repeat what you told us on the way up to the castle.”
Abe looked up, not at the earl but at his new countess. That, too, was ominous. Although there was nothing this fellow could say that could not be denied. If it ever came to a gypsy’s word against a Gardyn’s, there was no doubt which would be believed.
The gypsy said, “Back in the summer of 1799, in June, before the horse fair, someone paid me a lot of money to take a little girl from her home. So I did. I saw her in the garden—”
“Which garden?” Winslow interrupted.
“Garden at Haven Hall,” the gypsy said clearly. “In front of the house.”
Julius had been ready for it. His mother emitted a piteous cry. He patted her hand absently. From her other side, the new countess rose and poured a glass of water, which she gave to his mother.
“Did you snatch her, frighten her?” Winslow demanded.
“No,” the gypsy said. “I asked her if she wanted to see the horses. She said yes, took my hand, happy as you please.”
“And what were you to do with this child?” Braithwaite asked.
The gypsy’s eyes slid away. “Kill her.”
The words echoed around the office, chilling, dreadful. Julius could not move. He stared at the surface of the desk, wishing he could think.
“And did you?” Winslow demanded.
Abe released a long sigh. “No.”
Gardyn lifted his gaze from the desk to the gypsy. He could almost breathe again. There had been no murder. Everything would be well.
The gypsy shifted in his chair. “I couldn’t do it. She were a sweet little maid, so I took her to my wife, who screamed at me all the way to Appleby. She were ill, you see, my wife, not up to caring for another child. So I had a word with another couple I knew who’d recently lost a babe. I gave them this child and some money to care for her.”
Oh dear God, how could he be so stupid? Of course he was not yet clear. He could see where this was going.
“So,” Julius said, fixing the gypsy with a glare, while he snatched something from the desk, anything to keep his anxious hands busy. “You stole my baby cousin from her home and gave her to another gypsy couple to hide her. While her family died of grief. Why is this vile cretin not in chains?”
Winslow said, “Because we need him to identify—”
“Eleanor?” Julius laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound and he hadn’t meant it to be. “If she is truly alive still, she is nineteen years old! No one could identify her from the memory of a three-year-old child. Not sixteen years later.”
“That is true,” the young countess said, speaking for the first time. She gazed at Julius without troubling to introduce herself. “Of course, I remember things. I remember the schoolroom at Haven Hall. I remember my mother—my real mother—and my nurse. I remember the castle, and Lord Braithwaite when he was a ten-year-old boy. I even remember you, Cousin Julius. But you are right. None of that is proof of my identity. Even though I remember Abe, too. What was she wearing, Abe? The child you took from Haven Hall?”
Abe shrugged. “Little white dress with pretty flowers.”
“Yellow ones,” Julius’s mother said dreamily. “And blue and red ones. Silly gown to dress a child in when she’s going outside to play in the mud.”
Braithwaite opened a drawer in his desk and took out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. And Julius knew. Involuntarily, his fingers tightened on the object in his hand. It was a letter opener.
Braithwaite threw off the string and spread the paper wide. “That dress?”
Julius felt sick. “Where did you get it?” he managed.
“From the woman I called my sister for sixteen years,” Lady Braithwaite said. “I was wearing it when Abe gave me to her parents.”
So, there was no murder to prove. But she had proven her identity. She was Eleanor. Haven Hall and the modest Gardyn fortune were hers. And he, Julius, was left with nothing. As usual.
Or…
Julius drew in his breath on a sudden laugh. He threw the paper knife back onto the desk and asked the question they all wanted the answer to. In order to bury him. Well, it would not be him they buried.
“Then tell us, Abe,” he said clearly. “Who paid you to steal and murder Eleanor Gardyn?”
“You know,” Abe muttered.
“Is he in this room?” Winslow asked impatiently.
“It weren’t a he at all!” Abe exclaimed.
In the frozen surprise, while everyone stared at him, Julius’ mother acted just as he’d known she would. She threw herself forward, spilling water everywhere. The glass tumbled to the floor as she snatched the letter knife from the desk and threw herself on the new Countess of Braithwaite.