Moonlight on My Mind (24 page)

“Christ above, Julianne.” The devil take it, she made him feel bloody powerless. “I am not worried about the danger in what you might say. I am worried about what the killer might do. To
you
. Whoever this is, he is a dangerous man. I will not have you in harm’s way.”

The door swung open. Farmington’s shadow fell across them, dividing them more effectively than any fence. “Your time is up, Lady Haversham,” he told her, his face unreadable.

Patrick shook off the thought of the coming darkness and the rodents that would emerge with it. Any thought of his own discomfort paled in comparison to the worry that sliced through him now. “For God’s sake, please do not investigate this any further on your own,” he told her, not even caring that Farmington could hear every word of their exchange now. “It is too dangerous.”

And I do not want to lose you too.

“I will be careful,” was her only response. And then she stepped out of the cell and the darkness closed in once more.

Patrick stared at the place where she had just stood, imagining he could still see her, still smell her unique fragrance. It was a hell of a thing to be locked in gaol while your wife ran amok. Impotent rage streaked through him as he reimagined their conversation and still arrived at the same maddening conclusion.

She was going after Prudence. He could see it in the tilt of her jaw. Fear was a paralyzing thing, and he was undeniably afraid for her.

Because if she insisted on investigating these events on her own, he was terrified she could very well find herself the killer’s next victim.

Chapter 25

T
wo things soon became clear. Prudence was proving devilishly difficult to find.

And George Willoughby was trying to drive Julianne mad.

Whereas the gentleman had once been content to merely offer his smiles and besotted glances, he now turned himself over to the business of making himself indispensable. He fetched her slippers. Insisted on reading to her, as if it was too taxing for her brain to hold a book
and
be female. He used words like “rest” and “gentle” and “please.” In his efforts, she could see echoes of those men of the
ton
who had pursued her these past three Seasons, men who saw her only as an object to be admired, petted, cosseted.

Far from making her feel better, it made her miss her husband. Not because she required male attention, but because she was beginning to realize why she had been attracted to Patrick in the first place. In contrast to Willoughby’s fawning attentions, Patrick treated her like an equal. Oh, he argued with her. Ordered her about rudely at times, and railed against her at others. Pushed her against walls and kissed her senseless. But never did he treat her as though she was some fragile flower, bound to be crushed beneath his boot with a single misstep, not even when he was truly—and reasonably—worried for her safety.

Worse, she’d been unable to locate Prudence, despite two more trips into town. The former maid had completely abandoned her post at the seamstress’s shop, and it seemed likely that she—and Julianne’s five sovereigns—were now in Leeds, blending into the working-class woodwork there. With MacKenzie not yet returned from London and Farmington refusing her requests to see Patrick again, she felt shackled by ineptitude, and desperate to do something.
Anything
.

Anything except tolerate Willoughby.

“You should accompany me to church today,” George said as he followed her to the breakfast table on Sunday morning.

Julianne glowered at him as she settled into her chair. When had he stopped asking questions and begun presuming he knew her mind? “Actually, I had thought to take a trip into Leeds.”

“Is that wise?” He moved to pour her a cup of tea at the sideboard. “You seem out of sorts. And Leeds is some distance away.”

She couldn’t deny she
felt
out of sorts. A faint sense of nausea had trailed her all week, but it seemed to have grown claws this morning. “Nonetheless, I have business there. You should ask someone else to accompany you to church. The dowager countess, perhaps. And I feel sure Aunt Margaret would be willing to accompany you, if you ask her.”

“Sitting in church with Aunt Margaret would make it difficult to pray for her departure.” George set a cup of tea down in front of her and smiled, one conspirator to another. “She’s the only one who refuses to leave, you know.”

Julianne glanced down at her cup, staring at the innocuous curl of steam hovering about the porcelain rim. “Not the
only
one, surely.”

After all,
he
was still here, handily underfoot.

The tea was a perfect example. George had taken to bringing her cup after cup of the vile beverage, this one sweetened with honey, that one flavored with rosehips. The thing was, she didn’t
like
tea, however unpatriotic a sentiment that might be. She would have much preferred chocolate. But she clamped her lips around the thought as George sat down beside her, because to give voice to it would surely result in an avalanche of the sweet drink.

“Aunt Margaret is the only one who has decided to stay on, despite my encouragement otherwise.” George reached for a piece of toast and spread it with jam and clotted cream before laying it on Julianne’s plate. “The last of the guests left this morning.”

Julianne looked up in surprise over the rim of her cup. For the first time, it occurred to her that the table stretched empty on either side. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t normally see her guests with any clarity beyond the fifth or sixth seat—there were clearly no faces to be seen this morning. She eyed the man who had orchestrated it all. George
looked
his usual benign self. Brown eyes, mild smile. His clothing had been selected to accentuate—if not outright exaggerate—the breadth of his shoulders, and his brown hair had been carefully combed into compliance. But he sounded like someone else entirely.

“You’ve evicted them?” she demanded. She’d scarcely thought of Aunt Margaret these past few days beyond someone to generally avoid, but the woman was not being particularly troublesome at the moment. In fact, given the choice of Willoughby or Aunt Margaret’s company this morning, she’d be hard-pressed not to pick the latter. “Without consulting me first?”

“You were the one who put the idea in my head, asking me to see to the needs of the guests.”

She drew a deep breath. “My husband clearly indicated he wished to extend our hospitality, as his father had always done. You had no right, George.”

“Your husband is not here. And you need to rest.” George reached over and tucked a napkin across her lap. “But do not worry,” he said, ending on a smile. “I think I can hurry Aunt Margaret along in another few days.”

“I did not ask you to hurry her along. I do not require your protection, George.”

His hand moved suggestively from the napkin to squeeze her thigh. “Julianne, I want to protect you. And should the worst happen—although I am sure we can all agree we hope it doesn’t come to that—I want you to know that I would fight to keep the title within our family, and offer you the protection of my name.”

Julianne stared at him, incredulous. “What
name
, George? If Patrick is found guilty and hanged, the title will revert to the Crown.”

The hand in her lap shifted from a squeeze to a patronizing weight. “I was as devastated as anyone when it seemed the title was in jeopardy. But Jonathon Blythe has spoken with several influential people in London during these past difficult months. He assures me the Crown would likely consider a close relative’s petition to be awarded the title.”

Julianne eyed George Willoughby with a dawning horror. Blythe was making inquiries into whether he might qualify to be considered for the title? As far as motives went, it was every bit as logical as the one people wished to pin on Patrick.

“But until it comes to that, I’ll not have you dance attendance on a woman who should have left a week ago,” George blundered on. “Not when you are expecting.”

For heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t
George
have left a week ago? She opened her mouth, about to snap that she was most assuredly not expecting anything but his own swift departure, when Mr. Peters stepped into the dining room and cleared his throat.

“Mr. James MacKenzie has arrived, my lady. I’ve brought him straight in, as you requested.”

“Oh, thank heavens.” Julianne twisted around in her seat, grateful for a reprieve from the unpleasant surprise George Willoughby was turning out to be. Her stomach cartwheeled at the sight of James MacKenzie, looming tall behind the butler’s shoulder. His clothes bore the imprint of travel, and his face was marred by a new slash of beard. But she had never been so glad to see a dusty, dirty soul in her life.

“Mr. MacKenzie.” She gained her feet. A rush of dizziness made the floor slip beneath her feet, and she placed a steadying hand on the back of her chair. “I am so relieved to see you. I trust my father explained the current situation?”

“Aye. I came as soon as I could. Your father will be a day yet, some business in London.” MacKenzie’s gaze swung across the table, his eyes narrowing on George. “How is Haversham?”

“He’s still being held at the Shippington gaol.”

MacKenzie frowned. “I had hoped he might have been transferred to North Riding, at least. Is he well?”

“I do not know,” Julianne admitted. “I visited him the day after his arrest, but the magistrate has refused my requests to see him again.”

The solicitor uttered a brogue-rich curse, then spun on his heel. Julianne scrambled to follow him down the hallway into the foyer. “Let me have the coach called up, and we can take it into town together.”

“No, lass, that’s a poor idea all around. I’ve a horse I rented from Leeds that will carry me there well enough. You’ll only slow me down. Patrick’s been rotting in gaol for almost a week, not knowing where I am. I’ll not have him thinking I’ve abandoned him too.”

Julianne’s leap to understanding was swiftly cruel. “I have not abandoned him!”

“No?” MacKenzie jerked his chin toward the dining room, and Julianne imagined she could see disappointment in his green eyes. “Your cozy breakfast suggests otherwise.”

Julianne gasped, though her outrage was tinged with guilt as well. “George Willoughby is Patrick’s cousin. There is naught between us that is improper.”

“The gentleman had his hands in your lap. Your mind does not seem on your husband, Lady Haversham.”

Julianne gathered herself for a proper denial, but just as her mouth was opening, she was struck by an unexpected maelstrom in her gut. She pitched for the umbrella stand, the contents of her stomach ejecting in great, heaving rolls. Embarrassment and nausea colluded against her, and a long moment passed before she had the courage to look back up at her guest.

“How long have you been feeling poorly?” he asked, a curious expression on his face.

A gray cloud crept in on the edge of her vision. “A touch of upset, nothing to be concerned about. Probably the clotted cream, at breakfast. Although . . . I don’t know how I am going to explain the umbrellas to Mr. Peters.”

He lifted a dark brow. “Georgette keeps a chamber pot at hand when she feels poorly. Of course, I try to keep a wide berth on those days.” He pulled on his hat and reached for the front door. “If you are feeling ill, all the more reason to stay here instead of taking the coach to Shippington. Patrick needs your strength, Lady Haversham, not your theatrics.”

Chapter 26

P
atrick had come to dread the scrape of keys at his cell door.

Beyond what the opening of that door meant to him, he lived in continual worry of what the scrape of those keys might mean for Julianne. He’d dreamed, on more than one occasion, the door might swing open to reveal someone bearing news of her injury or worse. And so, as the unmistakable sound reached his ears, he gained his feet, readying himself for the worst.

But the worry Patrick carried on his shoulders lightened as James MacKenzie ducked his familiar dark head into the cell, a lantern in one hand.

“Bloody hell, MacKenzie.” Patrick grinned around the sight of him. “At last you decide to grace me with your presence. I figured you’d decided I was guilty after all.”

James chuckled. “The only thing you are guilty of is questionable hygiene.” He enveloped Patrick in a back-slapping hug as the door swung shut behind him. “Still refusing to bathe, I see.”

Patrick twisted out of his friend’s bruising grip, his ribs healing, but still not quite up to the task of such an enthusiastic greeting. “I’m glad to see you.”

James snorted. “I’m pleased
someone
is, because your gaoler seems to be of the opposite opinion. Mr. Blythe nearly tore off a limb when I informed him your solicitor was here to see you, and moreover, to demand your removal to North Riding.” James eyed the closed door with an upraised brow. “Is Shippington so small they must conscript your cousin to serve as guard?”

“I assure you, the man is more intent on keeping me locked away than any hired thug,” Patrick said dryly. “Where in the blazes have you been?”

James hesitated, and glanced toward the closed door again. “Things in London took longer than I expected, but I was able to settle the matter of your petition. Can we speak freely, or is there someplace else I should request you be moved?”

Patrick shrugged. “I am not sure we’ll be given an opportunity for anything more private. Let us talk, but try to keep your voice low.”

James sat down on the narrow cot, and set the lantern down beside him. “Your petition has been filed, and they are preparing to convene a special session in the House of Lords, although I’ll not be permitted to defend you there. I’ve found you a serjeant-at-law, though given what the man charges, it is likely to be a painful experience.” James’s eyes narrowed. “Although I suppose pain is relative. You look as though you’re in need of more than just a bit of soap to set you to rights. I see they’ve been trying to beat a confession out of you.”

“I’ve given them naught.”

“Good lad.” James hesitated a telling moment. “And how are you getting on with the delectable Julianne?” He grinned. “Still inhabiting separate rooms, I see.”

“I’ll admit, things could be improved at the moment.” Patrick winced. “Being here is certainly not helping my circumstances.”

“No, I’d imagine it isn’t.” James’s grin fell away, and he studied him with eyes sharp as talons. “Haversham . . . about your wife. Do you trust her?”

Patrick knew not even a second’s hesitation. “Aye. She’s proven herself loyal, I’d say. Refused to testify against me. Tried to take on the whole of my relatives, merely for voicing a few negative opinions. I think the bigger question is whether she should trust
me
.”

“Oh?”

“She knows why I married her.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I would not be surprised if she hates me now. I’ve been a terrible husband, all told. But why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because I’ve come from Summersby this morning, and she is acting deucedly strange.”

Patrick’s thoughts jerked hard to center. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“She took ill this morning. Cast up her accounts, right in front of me. I’ve seen it happen to people who are struggling under a tremendous amount of guilt.”

Patrick’s hands balled to fists. “Damn it, man, why didn’t you say something from the start?” He had never struck his friend in anger, though they had certainly engaged in their share of good-natured sparring. He stood on the verge of rectifying that oversight now. “If she is ill, you should have told me immediately.”

The Scotsman shrugged. “Your wife’s condition is not my primary concern.
Yours
is, and seeing you released. Although . . . I am not sure that illness or guilt are the only possible explanations for the theatrical bit of nausea I saw this morning. Georgette had much the same look about her during the early part of her pregnancy. Couldn’t stand to look at food, and even ordinary smells would send her running.” James offered him an indelicate sniff. “Perhaps it’s a good thing she isn’t here to see you. You’re enough to turn
my
stomach, right enough.”

Patrick stilled against his friend’s suggestion. “Are you implying Julianne may be pregnant?” The idea rolled around in his head. Gathered speed. “It is far too early,” he protested, even as hope began to strangle logic. “We’ve been married only a few weeks.”

“She’s a dramatic sort. You’ve admitted as much yourself. Perhaps such things might affect her earlier than other women.” MacKenzie’s matter-of-fact observation made Patrick want to plant a fist in his friend’s mouth, never mind that his statement was deadly accurate. “Of course, you might want to make sure it’s yours. Because she’s become very cozy with your cousin George Willoughby.”

Bloody hell
. Patrick had meant it when he’d said he trusted Julianne. He did not think her infatuated with his cousin. But he’d not ruled Willoughby out as a suspect—certainly not with enough assurance he felt comfortable knowing Julianne was so close to him.

But of course, MacKenzie didn’t know any of this.

And so Patrick told his friend everything. About Prudence, and the fact that his brother’s gun had never been fired, and the suspicions about his father’s death. And as he related the course of events, he became increasingly consumed by desperation.

“So your cousin, Jonathon Blythe—who even now is sitting outside this cell, while you rot inside it—is your primary suspect for Eric’s death?” James asked, close to incredulous.

Patrick nodded grimly. “And my father’s, as well.”

“And Blythe is also the party responsible for bruising your ribs?”

Another nod. “Julianne’s illness . . .” Patrick’s voice rang hoarse, but oh God, it hurt to think of what this all could mean. “It could be something more sinister. My father was
poisoned
. And I am not there to protect her.”

A frown spread across his friend’s face. “Well then.” James rose to his feet, his hands balled to fists. “It sounds like we need to fetch the magistrate.”

J
ulianne awoke in a state of confusion, blinking against the gray light threading its way through the bedroom window. She lay a moment, the air in the room too still, too heavy for comfort.

And then she remembered. She’d taken ill in front of Mr. MacKenzie, casting up her accounts in the umbrella stand, of all things.

Someone—Aunt Margaret, perhaps?—had brought her a ginger water to rinse her mouth, which had helped, but then had come the awful vertigo that had sent the walls spinning like a child’s toy and forced her to lie down on the bed and close her eyes. And that was the last she remembered until waking in a room as quiet as a tomb.

Gingerly, she tested her limbs, which were thankfully in working order. Her stomach seemed to have quieted dramatically, thank the stars. The stillness was odd. Summersby was never still. There was always someone about, servants chattering in the hallway, or the girls’ feet pounding in the upstairs nursery. Shouldn’t there be someone about? A dog, or a maid, perhaps?

The ever-lingering George Willoughby?

The first splatters of rain began to pelt her window, and she pulled herself from bed to peer out at a building storm. It seemed the weather today was determined to match her health. Or perhaps her condition had soured on account of the gathering clouds. Of course, she didn’t need a gray sky to justify her black mood. Though her poor, pitching stomach was much improved over its performance earlier this morning, she had a perfectly reasonable reason to feel emotionally out of sorts.

James MacKenzie had accused her of unfaithfulness, and then gone on to see Patrick in the gaol without her.

She made her way downstairs, her feet unsteady enough that she had to grip the banister for support. How she felt made not a whit of difference. Whatever she might have hoped to salvage of her marriage would surely be lost the moment the Scotsman mentioned his suspicions. She needed to go to Patrick immediately, to explain that Mr. MacKenzie had dreadfully misinterpreted whatever he thought he’d seen.

But Mr. Peters shook his head, clearly nonplussed at her request to have the coach called up. “I am terribly sorry, my lady, but I was not aware you were planning to travel today. The coach has taken the household into Shippington to attend Sunday services.” He hesitated. “We were led to believe you were resting above stairs and were told not to disturb you. But if you are feeling better, you’ve a visitor, just arrived. She was most insistent on waiting for you. I’ve installed her in the green salon.”

“Mr. Peters, I do not think I am up for receiving anyone today.”

“Shall I turn Miss Smith away?”

Julianne’s senses marched toward alert. “Miss
Prudence
Smith?”

He inclined his big head, kindly concern in his eyes. “Yes, my lady. But if you are not feeling up for it—”

But Julianne was already hurrying toward the green salon, as fast as her unsteady feet could carry her. Her eyes fixed on a familiar dark head, pacing nervously near the windows. “Prudence,” she said, closing the doors behind her. “I am so glad to see you have not gone back to Leeds after all.”

The former maid bowed her head. “No, miss. I . . . I’ve been hiding in my rooms, trying to decide. I thought more about what you said. And what I did. Or, more what I
didn’t
do.” Prudence frowned. “You are right. So much of this is my fault, for being too frightened to say anything. But I’m far more frightened now than I ever was in November. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I’m too afraid the killer might strike again. I’ve been afraid to go back to Leeds, even. Surely he could find me there, if he wanted to. That’s why I’m here.” She fairly shook beneath the weight of her teary confession. “The only way to be safe is to see him arrested, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me all along.”

“Yes.” Julianne nodded. “You know we would protect you here at Summersby.”

“That’s just it, miss.” Prudence darted a glance toward the door, and her voice hushed to a whisper. “I don’t think you can protect me at Summersby. Or yourself either. I went to church today to pray on it. And . . . and I saw him again.”

“You saw the killer at church?” Awareness charged in like a runaway horse. “Do you know his name?” Julianne asked frantically.

“No, miss. But . . .” Prudence’s breathing hitched, coming faster now in a series of quick pants. “He was sitting in the Haversham pew, next to Lady Haversham.”

Julianne was seized with an awful, knee-buckling certainty. “You did not speak to him?” she asked sharply, suddenly afraid for the girl.

“No. I panicked. Slipped out of church and ran back to my rooms, right in the middle of the opening prayer. But after I thought about it a moment, I realized I needed to tell you, and that I had this one chance to do it before church let out. So I rented a carriage, and came straight here.” She hesitated. “Oh, please,
please
tell me you know who it is. I couldn’t bear it if after all this, we still had no idea.”

The room seemed to tilt beneath Julianne’s three inch heels. “Yes,” she admitted, though her gut wanted to deny it. “I’m afraid I do know who it is.”

Prudence worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Then you can tell the magistrate?”

“
You
need to tell the magistrate,” Julianne corrected, already bundling the frozen girl toward the door.

“I . . . I couldn’t miss.”

“They won’t take my word for it, Prudence. The gentleman who would have been sitting with Lady Haversham in church this morning is George Willoughby, my husband’s cousin. We
must
return to Shippington immediately and tell the magistrate everything you have told me.”

Prudence tensed. “I know I’ve caused a good deal of trouble, but I am not sure I can . . .”

For a moment Julianne was afraid she might be facing a repeat performance of the girl’s prior disappearing act. She forced her voice to soften. “We both caused the trouble, Prudence. I should never have claimed to have seen something I hadn’t.” She hesitated. “In truth, I should not have pretended I could see so well on any number of occasions.”

Julianne knew, however, that if she got a second chance at this, she would proceed far differently. There was no shame in admitting a deficiency. The only shame to be found was in hurting people she loved, because of little more than vanity.

“I know this will be difficult,” she told the former maid, “and you have every right to be afraid. But I want you to know, when this is through, you shall have a position here at Summersby. I am still searching for a proper ladies’ maid, after all.”

The girl’s eyes widened, though her face was still a sickly white. “Truly?”

Julianne nodded, and squeezed her hand. “Quickly, then.”