Moonlight on My Mind (13 page)

Chapter 13

G
asps rang out on four sides, but Patrick’s attention was focused solely on his mother. He regretted delivering the news in so ignominious a fashion, but really, was there a better way?

She looked as though she’d been through hell. The dark circles beneath her eyes, the new prominence to her cheekbones—these things he had already noted. It was easier to focus on the clinical signs of mourning instead of the hurt surprise that flashed in her eyes at his announcement. But that did not mean he didn’t notice.

“It cannot be true,” she told him, her voice a hurt scratch against his conscience. “She was just here for your father’s funeral, and said nothing at all of this.”

Patrick nodded grimly. “We were married in Scotland four days ago.”

“I do not understand.” His mother’s voice, usually so calm, seemed as gnarled as her hands, knotting and unknotting in her crepe skirts. “How could you marry the woman who . . .” She swallowed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Who accused you of killing Eric?”

The understandable question reached through his ribs, searching for an answer that would not be a lie. Patrick hesitated. The black-frocked crowd in the foyer showed no signs of dwindling, but it was far too late for regrets.

Or, it seemed, properly constructed explanations.

“She no longer believes that, Mother.”

His mother stared at him a long, telling second before glancing toward Julianne. Her lips formed a thin façade of a greeting. “Then it seems I must offer my congratulations. The new Lady Haversham is, of course, welcome here at Summersby as well.”

“Has everyone here lost their hold on their sanity?” Jonathon Blythe, Patrick’s cousin, shouldered his way out of the crowd.

It was not all that surprising that Blythe was apparently still here a good week after the funeral, publicly mourning the death of the man whose favor he had always sought in life. From Patrick’s earliest recollection, Blythe had always been underfoot, descending on Summersby for entire months at a time. But it annoyed Patrick that the younger man should now stand in what was arguably
his
foyer and toss out such accusations.

And Blythe’s gaze seemed far from familial at the moment.

“He’s murdered his brother, for God’s sake,” the younger man snarled.

Patrick struggled to contain his temper. Blythe might be the first to speak it out loud, but he would not be the last, or perhaps not even the loudest. Now would begin the parade of angry relatives. He’d expected it, of course. His father’s letters had hinted at the residual animosity, and Blythe’s loud objections had been chief among them.

“Someone should fetch the magistrate,” a disembodied voice echoed in agreement.

“He belongs in gaol.” This from Aunt Margaret, his father’s sister and Blythe’s mother.

Other voices rose in agreement. It was like being thrust into the November house party again, only this time the arrows were being aimed at him instead of the targets set up on the front lawn.

“Is this any way to treat the new earl?” A single, contrary voice rang out. “He’s not yet been charged.”

Silence fell, and the crowd twisted around. Patrick shifted with them, searching out the source of such dissidence. The relative who had uttered those words stepped forward, and Patrick recognized George Willoughby. Another cousin.

And apparently his only supporter.

Most of those in today’s crowd had been at the November house party, eager to enjoy the comforts of Summersby at someone else’s expense. He’d considered Willoughby chief among those interlopers at the time. He felt guilty for such quick judgment now.

Here was a man who
ought
to hate him as much as Jonathon Blythe. On the simplest level, both Blythe and Willoughby had likely lost some social standing after the events of eleven months ago—not that either had ever held much. After all, one did not boast a murder suspect in the family without suffering some from the association. Things became more complicated if one considered that both men were considered equal contenders for succession after Patrick. Neither would be looking forward to the prospect of having the title stripped from the family’s reach and returned to the Crown.

Patrick extended a cautious hand. “Willoughby.”

His cousin hesitated, but then clasped Patrick’s. “Haversham.”

A collective easing of tension rippled out through the crowd at George Willoughby’s very public acknowledgment. The butler finally collected his wits and closed the front door, nodding toward Patrick as he bustled past. “Welcome home, my lord.”

Patrick had heard Mr. Peters utter those same words a thousand times, always to his father. To hear them directed toward himself sounded horribly wrong, and for a moment he wondered if he wasn’t making a tremendous mistake. He didn’t know how to be earl.

He didn’t
want
to know how to be earl.

He wanted only to free himself from the pending murder charge and ensure his family didn’t wind up destitute. But to do that, he needed to accept this mantle that, like it or not, had been lowered onto his shoulders like a heavy yoke.

Mr. Peters began to herd the servants back to their posts, instructing one wide-eyed maid to clean up the water that still lay upon the floor. The guests began to drift away too, though judging by the disapproving looks a few tossed behind them, Patrick was still front and center in their thoughts. With any luck, the morrow would see most of them returned to London.

Then again, family had a way of staying longer than they ought.

As the guests left the foyer, Patrick felt as though he was finally able to breathe again. Only his mother, Julianne, and Lord Avery remained. His mother was watching him with a sheen of moisture in her eyes, but those tears were far removed from the ones that had fallen the day of Eric’s death. He felt like a bounder to have caused them. “You should not have had to deal with Father’s death alone,” he told her gently.

“I had your letters to comfort me. But I am so, so glad you are home.”

Patrick blinked. “My . . .
letters
?” He had not written his mother, thinking the contact would be unwelcome.

“Your father read me each of your letters. I have them, in safekeeping.” Her smile turned brittle. “In case we need to use them in your defense, proof of where you have been these past months.”

Patrick blinked. “You knew Father corresponded with me?”

“I understood it was necessary to be so careful, until the facts were sorted out. I felt better knowing you were safe, instead of sitting in a prison somewhere stricken with gaol fever.” She reached out a hand and squeezed his arm. “Mary and Eleanor will be so pleased to see your safe return. Your sisters cried for weeks after you left.”

The thought of his ten-year-old twin sisters mourning his disappearance stung. Patrick had imagined his family still blamed him for Eric’s death, that his absence was necessary for their healing. He’d envisioned a family torn, his culpability in his brother’s death dividing their loyalties and pitting husband against wife. But apparently, his disappearance had been nearly as hard on them as Eric’s death.

Lord Avery swept an angry hand toward the hallway. “The study would be a better place to continue this conversation, Haversham.” He stopped Julianne’s forward motion with a firm hand. “I wish to speak with him alone. You will go upstairs and see yourself settled.”

Julianne flushed. “But—”

“
Now
, Julianne.” Her father’s tone brooked no argument.

Patrick well knew the tight smile that swept over his wife’s face, and it did not bode well for an easy acquiescence. Not that he didn’t see the reasoning behind Avery’s demand. A man liked a smaller audience when his liver was about to be delivered in pieces, roasted on a platter.

“Perhaps it would be best,” Patrick agreed. “It will be an unpleasant sort of conversation, I’m afraid. I would spare you the indignity.”

“But I
wish
to be present,” she said, her voice rising in both pitch and volume.

The urge to resort to Avery’s methods and order Julianne above stairs gnawed at him. He was her husband, a man she had sworn to obey, even if he suspected those vows had emerged from her lips as more sentimental drivel than actual fact. But while his new wife might still be a bit of a mystery to him, he had at least discovered this about her: no one made Julianne do anything she did not wish to do.

She shifted the dog in her arms. “I am every bit as culpable here, and—”

“Are you aware your dog is injured?” Patrick interrupted as he spied a red smear on her otherwise pristine lavender bodice. He searched for the source of blood, and spied a small wound on the dog’s right shoulder.
Well done, Gemmy.
An uncharitable thought, perhaps, but given the hold Julianne’s dog had taken on Gemmy’s throat, Patrick couldn’t help but be glad his dog hadn’t completely disgraced himself.

“Constance?” Julianne glanced down and her face turned as white as the dog’s fur. “Oh my word,” she gasped. “She is bleeding!”

Patrick examined the wound more closely as the little dog bared its teeth at him. Constance appeared to be the by-blow of something disreputable, at best, and judging by the little dog’s temperament, a sewer rat likely figured somewhere in its ancestry. The wound was reassuringly shallow, but it was enough to foment an idea. “It does not appear overly deep. Still, unwashed wounds have a tendency to fester. It should be cleaned straight away.”

Julianne lowered her cheek to her pet’s head. “Is it so very serious as that? Perhaps we could have one of the servants do it.”

“I’d hate to risk lethal injury to the staff,” he said tellingly.

Her eyes narrowed on him. “Constance
can
be a terror at times.”

“A fact I am sure Gemmy can now respect. In this case, I think only someone who knows her well should attempt to see to her injury.”

Her smile faltered, which Patrick took as a good sign. She had clearly sorted through his scheme, and was weighing her options. But finally, she nodded. “Of course, you are right.” She leaned in close and her voice lowered to a whisper. “I might as well practice my nursing skills, as I suspect you may need them when my father is through with you.”

“I can escort you above stairs to Patrick’s room,” his mother offered. “ ’Tis the same as he left it, medical supplies and bandages scattered about. I am sure you can find whatever you need there.”

“Thank you, I would appreciate that.” Julianne’s eyes pulled to her father. “But . . . please be kind to Patrick, Father. He has had a difficult few days.”

Avery bristled. “Then one more difficult hour shouldn’t make much of a difference.”

Chapter 14

T
he evening sun was fading as Patrick faced Lord Avery over his father’s desk. It had been difficult enough to stand here eleven months ago, facing his father’s grief. Standing like a delinquent schoolboy in front of Julianne’s father, about to confess to some sugarplum version of his sins, came close to the same misery.

“Damn you, Haversham!” Avery pounded on the desk, nearly setting the inkwell over. “I think I deserved the courtesy of at least being asked for my daughter’s hand.”

The familiar scents of cigar and brandy and leather-bound books nudged at Patrick’s senses. They were things he had always associated with his father, and for a moment he was jerked back to a dark, foreboding place.

Christ above, would he never be given an opportunity to properly mourn?

But Julianne’s father was waiting for an answer, and so Patrick forced himself to focus on the white-haired man who had been his father’s closest friend. Avery appeared in something less than a benevolent frame of mind, sitting in Patrick’s father’s chair. Not that he blamed the man. Despoiling a man’s only daughter was a wrongdoing on par with murder.

And in this sin, at least, Patrick was all too guilty.

“Why was she even in Scotland, for God’s sake?” Avery raged. “And why did my staff in London not send word she’d gone missing?”

For all his blustering, anyone could see Lord Avery was a father who loved his daughter, and he deserved an explanation that provided hope for his daughter’s future. Still, Patrick could not see the sense in adding nonsensical exultations of love to the mess of this marriage. Given the circumstances, he doubted Avery would believe them, anyway.

“Were they expecting her?” Patrick asked. “She told me she came straight from the funeral.”

That set Avery’s white brows at attention. “She never made it to London?”

“By the timing of things, I would wager not.”

“I sent her to London a week ago, with a borrowed ladies’ maid. Her presence here was proving distressful to your mother and sisters, particularly after all she had done.” Avery’s fist thumped on the desk. “But
why
, damn it? Why would she do such a dangerous, foolhardy thing? And why would you bloody make it worse by marrying her? She’s underage, for God’s sake!”

“I believe she felt guilty, sir, and sought to rectify her role in things by coming to Scotland to find me. And no matter how she was sent, she arrived lacking a maid or proper escort. Preserving her reputation through marriage seemed the least troublesome solution.”

Avery leaned back, his knuckles turning white against the edge of the desk. “That is little enough cause for such a hasty decision. You’re suspected of
murder
, Haversham.”

“Julianne understands the seriousness of the situation.” Patrick willed himself to keep a tight rein on the temper that wanted to take the bit in its teeth. Lord Avery was more than Julianne’s father, he was a strong potential ally in the House of Lords, and Patrick suspected he was going to need one. “She has expressed some reservations about what she recalls from that day, reservations that have convinced her of my innocence, thank God. She did not marry me believing me a murderer, if that is your worry.”

Avery rose, and the air seemed to bend around his anger. “Hang it all, Haversham, why did she marry you at all?”

Patrick recoiled against the muttered oath that so literally reminded him of all that was at stake. Did gentlemen usually toss the word about so liberally? Or was it only that his neck was increasingly feeling the sting of the threat? “Her lack of chaperone caught the notice of the town rector.” So had her lack of clothing, but perhaps the point was well enough made without revealing that piece to her father.

Avery stalked around the side of the desk, but his ire seemed to be deflating with every step. He tugged at his cravat with a frustrated finger. “She’s an impetuous chit, but that doesn’t excuse your behavior in encouraging it.”

“I claim full responsibility. You should not blame her for the outcome.” Patrick paused, then added a gentle half truth that would ease Avery’s mind, even as it pricked his own conscience. “Not that it was anything close to a hardship to offer your daughter my protection, sir. Anyone would be proud to take Julianne as a wife.”

The older man’s eyes softened, ever so slightly. “You will learn,” he said, his voice thickening at the center, “that managing Julianne does not mean it is necessary to indulge her. My daughter is—” He seemed to reach for the right word.

“Headstrong?” Patrick supplied.

“Determined. As determined as her mother was. Keeping her out of the scandal sheets was nigh on impossible.” He eyed Patrick with something close to a grimace. “She’ll be a difficult wife, I’ll wager. Perhaps I should thank you, in the end. God knows I’ve had my doubts as to whether there was a man out there who could both meet her expectations and be willing to take her on.”

“She certainly pursues her own mind,” Patrick agreed, realizing that in this, at least, he spoke a large measure of truth.

“Goaded you into it, did she?” Avery’s hand plucked at his beard and he studied Patrick a disconcerting moment. “It is admirable of you to take the blame, of course, but you forget I know my daughter better than anyone.” He paused. “You’ve married her without my permission, and she’s a month shy of her majority. You realize you’ll not see a penny of her dowry. I am not obligated to provide it, given the circumstances.”

Patrick clenched his jaw against the thought of accepting payment for deceiving Julianne into this marriage. “I do not seek it.” He settled a hand on his father’s desk, and his finger trailed over the papers and correspondence that littered the top, correspondence it was now his godforsaken duty to manage. “I have planned a respectable settlement for her, should the worst happen. But it will not come to that. She will have the protection of my name, I swear it.”

“Protection?”
Avery’s voice cupped around the word in disbelief. “How do you propose to protect her if you are turned over to the gallows? You will drag my daughter to hell with you.”

Patrick stepped around the edge of the desk and lowered himself into his father’s chair. “I’ll not be found guilty, Lord Avery.”

“The devil take you, Haversham.” Julianne’s father stared down at him with eyes of chipped ice. “You will need more than bravado to convince the assizes, son.”

Patrick looked up at Avery with a calm assurance he did not yet quite feel, his new position both telling and terrifying. “I’ll not be tried in the assize courts.”

Avery’s eyes glittered across the space of the desk. “It’s to be the House of Lords, then?” At Patrick’s nod, those eyes narrowed. “A startling change in fortune—some might even call it
good
fortune. Your father’s suspicious death, and a chance to be tried as a peer?”

Avery’s words made cold fingers of worry shiver up Patrick’s back. “Was my father’s death suspicious? Julianne did not mention such a thing.”

“There are some who believe so. By all accounts, the earl was in perfect health, even days before his collapse. Damned convenient thing, you showing up now to take up the title.”

Patrick’s lungs funneled shut. The insinuation was vile, as horrifying and unimaginable as the crime he had been accused of committing against Eric. “Are you suggesting I had a hand in my father’s death?”

Avery stroked his beard with a deliberate thumb. “There will always be those eager to question the neat sequence of events that have landed you in your father’s chair.” His jaw softened. “Not that I believe it myself, Haversham. I never believed you capable of purposeful violence. But I want you to be prepared. A trial in the House of Lords is based more on appearances than evidence, son. ’Tis a long road you face to freedom.”

The older man’s words echoed the guidance MacKenzie had provided, and in this, at least, Patrick felt prepared. “I am grateful for your advice, Lord Avery.” He hesitated. “And, if I may dare hope, your support.”

The older man reached for a tray on the desk, and poured a generous glass of the old earl’s best Scottish whisky. He handed it over to Patrick. “Of course you have my support. I never believed it of you, no matter my daughter’s claims to the contrary. The stubborn chit’s never been able to see ten feet in front of her.” He shook his head, and a half-smile flitted about his face. “But you need to be prepared to fight for your birthright, son, as well as the truth. Because if you don’t, I imagine they might try to pin your father’s death on you too.”