Moonlight on My Mind (27 page)

Chapter 29

B
loody hell.

Farmington had been his father’s friend. The man had taught him how to tie fishing lures for God’s sake, and had spent many a memorable night in Summersby’s parlor, moving chess pieces across a board with Patrick’s father.

For a brief moment, the utter sense of betrayal Patrick felt threatened to drown him far more effectively than the howling wind and rain. But then anger lifted his feet and carried him back toward the carriage. James followed close on his heels, as if reading his thoughts.

“Who was the girl?” Farmington asked as they swung up onto the wet seat. Weary lines of cold and exhaustion peered out from the dripping brim of the magistrate’s top hat. “Not from Shippington, I should think. I don’t recognize her. Whoever has the charge of her ought to be shot, letting her traipse about in a storm like this.” The man’s casual reference to violence snapped whatever finesse Patrick had thought to manage here. He grabbed Farmington’s arm and twisted it, wrenching a shout of surprise and pain from the older man’s mouth. Blythe lurched around, the reins bunched in one fist. His face darkened when he saw what was happening.

He reached into his jacket, pulling out his revolver, but James had already anticipated it and wrenched it from his hand before Blythe’s thumb could reach the hammer.

“Bloody hell,” Blythe swore as he realized his vulnerability. “I
knew
we shouldn’t have trusted you, Haversham.”

“I’m not the one who has breached an essential trust here.” Patrick directed his bitter glower toward the magistrate. “She was the missing witness, Farmington. And she’s just named you as the man who pulled the trigger on Eric.”

For a moment, Patrick thought Farmington would struggle, or at least offer a word of denial. But instead, he sagged against Patrick’s punishing grip, offering no resistance at all.

“For God’s sake Farmington, tell them it isn’t true!” Blythe blustered.

Patrick ignored his cousin. “Have you any rope, MacKenzie?”

“No.” The sound of a pistol cocking rang out, distinct over the merciless sound of the rain. James pointed the barrel toward Farmington’s chest, cupping his hand over the top of the piece to protect it from the weather. “I’ve something better.”

“You can’t point a bloody weapon at a magistrate!” Blythe objected. “He’s not been charged with any crime, for God’s sake. There’s a process to follow.”

James illustrated his opinion of the “process”—and stopped the man’s tirade—by pointing Blythe’s own weapon toward him. “Are you going to make me secure you too, Mr. Blythe?” the solicitor drawled, his voice deceptively low. “Because I confess, I’ve a mind to give you a taste of your own methods. A few cracked ribs should shut you up. I won’t even tie you up.” He smiled wickedly. “Not that I need such an advantage. Unlike you, I know how to aim my fists without hog-tying my target.”

“Put it away, Mr. MacKenzie. There’s been enough violence.” Farmington’s voice rang out, thick with sadness and pain. “I’ll not have more deaths on my hands. Eric’s was hard enough.”

“It’s true then?” Blythe blinked, almost stupidly. “It’s been you? All along?”

The magistrate nodded. Only once, before his lips settled into a firm line that refused to budge. Clearly, Farmington was through talking.

But he’d said enough to take the starch from Blythe’s sails. When next his cousin’s eyes met Patrick’s, he appeared shocked, but newly resolute. “Do we travel on to Summersby then?”

“We have Farmington in custody, and Lady Haversham’s safety is no longer a question.” James shook his head. “We should take the prisoner back to Shippington.”

A sound plan. Logical. The sort of thinking Patrick was usually wont to do.

Except he couldn’t shake the feeling they were missing something vital in their understanding of the magistrate’s involvement. By all accounts, Farmington was a man without motive. He was a close friend of Patrick’s father, had known both Patrick and his brother their entire lives. What had possessed him to take the lives of people he ought to hold dear?

The answer, Patrick felt, would be found at Summersby. If they were going to question the man, he wanted to do it where it had all started.

His father’s study.

Only this time, Patrick was going to be on the business end of the interrogation.

“I must make sure my family has not been harmed,” he ground out, motioning for Blythe to drive on. “We can arrest him properly later.”

They pulled up to the manor house just as the rain started to slacken and clattered through Summersby’s front door in sodden boots, their coats dripping puddles onto gleaming floor. Gemmy greeted Patrick as if he’d been gone on a three-month sea journey, leaping in wild circles around Patrick, but he sidestepped the dog’s exuberance.

“Julianne!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the marble floor and high ceiling.

Instead of his wife, Mr. Peters appeared from a side hallway, hurrying forward. “My lord,” he said, breathing hard, “you’ve returned without notice?” He caught sight of Mr. Farmington, held fast in Blythe’s grip, and his eyes widened. “And in a far different manner than when you left, I see.”

“Where is Julianne?” Patrick demanded.

Mr. Peters hesitated. “She was not feeling well, my lord. In fact, I am rather concerned about her. She’s gone above stairs—”

“Thank you, Mr. Peters.” A feminine voice rang out. “That will be quite enough.”

Patrick’s attention lifted toward the stairs. Aunt Margaret was descending, one purposeful step at a time. “I saw your arrival from an upstairs window, Haversham. Am I to presume this means you have been released?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said slowly, trying to sort out why his aunt was issuing the staff orders instead of his wife.

Aunt Margaret’s gaze fell questioningly on Farmington as she reached the final step. Patrick’s mind scuttled backward to a conclusion that made sense. He had long struggled to conceive of any motive that would justify his brother’s murder, and drawn a blank for all save one.
Love
. A desire to protect, to nurture at all costs. Some shade of the same breath-robbing emotion that drove him here, desperate to see Julianne, and willing to kill anyone who might think to stop him. The pieces fell into place with alarming alacrity.

Patrick shoved Farmington into the center of the foyer. As the man fell to his knees, Aunt Margaret’s gasp of dismay rattled his ears. “I should have never been arrested,” Patrick ground out. “As I am sure you know, Aunt Margaret.”

“What are you talking about, Haversham?” Blythe demanded, whirling on Patrick with knotted fists. “
Farmington
has admitted killing Eric.”

“Aye.” Patrick kept his attention directed toward his aunt. “But he didn’t admit why. Given how reticent he’s been to talk about it, I’ll wager he’s protecting someone. And while he has admitted a role in Eric’s death, he has not confessed to killing my father. It would take someone close to the family to accomplish that. Someone who stayed at Summersby, whom the staff trusted. Someone a bit more bloodthirsty, and with a stronger degree of motivation.” He took a step toward his aunt. “Someone like
you
, Aunt Margaret.”

Farmington struggled to his feet. “Is Haversham correct, Margaret?” His voice rang thick with emotion. “Did
you
kill the earl?”

Aunt Margaret’s hand closed over the mourning brooch at her throat. “Do not say another word,” she warned.

Farmington’s throat worked convulsively. “You swore to me—
swore
—that after Eric, you were content to wait for the order of things to progress. But if you have killed your brother—”

“You are the one who cocked it up to begin with, not killing Patrick when you had the chance. I was only thinking of my son—”

“For God’s sake, Margaret. I do not want to hear about your blessed son!” Farmington straightened, his face blooming red. “I
killed
a man for you. The least you can do is be honest with me if you have done the same.”

Her reply was only silence.

That is, until the sound of a scuffle broke out behind them. Patrick turned to see MacKenzie and his cousin battling for control of the gun. Though his friend was stronger, Blythe had the advantage of surprise this time, and in less than a second, Blythe had the pistol in his hands. And then he pointed the weapon straight at his own mother, the engaging of the hammer unmistakable. “Answer Mr. Farmington’s question, Mother.”

Aunt Margaret gasped. “You cannot be serious, Jonathon.”

“I assure you, I am deadly so. You see, I can well believe you might have coerced Mr. Farmington into pulling the trigger. I should know—I’ve found myself at the receiving end of your schemes more than once in my life.” The barrel of his pistol did not waver. “I grow impatient for your response.”

“Yes,” she finally hissed. “I knew you would never conceive of doing such a thing for yourself, or agree to the plan. But I did it for
you
.”

Blythe swayed unsteadily, clearly horrified by his mother’s confession, despite his steel-edged demand for it. “My God.”

Patrick eased closer to his cousin. “She’s admitted it, Blythe,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He, of all people, knew the toxic consequences of absorbing guilt that was not yours to take. “This is not your fault.”

Blythe shook his head, his eyes blinking rapidly. “No. It is, you see. She’s my
mother
. I knew her heart was dark. My entire life, I’ve sought to distance myself from that darkness. Do you recall, that summer, with the dogs?”

“Aye,” Patrick said, trying to sort out whether he could slip the wavering pistol from his cousin’s hands without risking it going off. “ ’Twas the start of the animosity between us.”

“She caused it. You thought I had drowned those puppies to punish you, but it wasn’t my idea, Haversham. We were all of, what, nine years old? She
made
me drown them. To teach me of duty, she said.” Blythe renewed his grip on the pistol, holding it with both hands now. “I knew then . . . knew there was evil in you, Mother.” His voice cracked. “But to take a human life . . . your own brother’s life. How could you
do
such a thing?”

Patrick held up a cautious hand. It was far too easy to be riveted by the unfolding drama . . . for once, thankfully, not his own. He could see James sidling closer to Aunt Margaret, and the thought that his friend was stepping closer to the path of a potential bullet made his chest tighten.

“I did not trust my brother would leave this world in time for you to see the title.” Aunt Margaret shook her head. “And he was beginning to ask questions. Beginning to suspect. I could not risk it, not after waiting for so long.”

“Damn it, Mother. I ought to kill you.” Blythe’s voice cracked.

“But you won’t,” she whispered, lifting her chin. “I am your mother.”

“You killed your brother. Who is to say I don’t carry the same lack of morality in my blood? Who is to say I am not like you?”

The moment stretched to silence, long and hard, seconds ticking away.

“Jonathon.” Patrick laid a careful hand on his cousin’s arm. He could feel the tension in the younger man, coiled and ready to strike. “You are in charge of your own decisions, your own life. Family history cannot force you to be someone you are not.”

“That’s a sodding lie, and you know it.” Blythe shook his head, almost desperately. “You are your own worst example, Haversham. Here you are, titled and miserable, forced back to Summersby where you never wanted to be.”

Patrick recognized echoes of his own confused choices in his cousin’s anguished voice, but he knew one clear truth. “No. No one forced this of me. I could have remained in Scotland, hiding from it all. But I chose to take on this responsibility, Jonathon, to return and face a murder charge I did not deserve. This is not your fault, cousin, any more than Eric’s death was mine. And you can
choose
to not be like her.”

He could see his cousin hesitate, see his words slip through the young man’s confusion. Patrick stepped closer still, and then he was lowering Blythe’s weapon-wielding arm and pulling the pistol from his cousin’s hand. From the corner of his eye, Patrick could see James seize Aunt Margaret by the arm.

And just like that, it was over. The danger was defused. His future was returned.

Patrick stood unsteadily in the middle of Summersby’s foyer, watching as James secured Aunt Margaret with a length of hastily produced rope. He
ought
to be glad. His life was waiting for him to gather up the pieces and craft them back into something whole. He couldn’t bring his brother and father back, but he could make damned sure he well honored their memories. But happiness—and relief—were hard to find when his wife was still very much missing.

“Where is Julianne?” he demanded.

“I believe she is in her room, my lord.” Mr. Peters bowed his head. “She has been ill, and Mrs. Blythe insisted on attending her, this hour past.”

Willoughby chose that moment to bumble out of a side hallway, a cold leg of chicken in one hand. “I’ve asked the cook to send up a tray to Julianne’s room, to go with Aunt Margaret’s tea.” His face settled into open surprise as he encountered the group in the foyer. He wiped his mouth with a guilty sleeve. “Oh, I say. What have I missed? And why is Haversham here, instead of gaol? Has Julianne lost the baby after all?”

But Patrick was already off like a shot. He took the stairs two at a time and reached his bedroom door in record time. His hand rattled the latch, confirming its locked state. Beyond the looming barrier, he could hear Constance’s anxious whine, the scratch of the little dog’s nails against the door, but no answering flow of human voice.

Fear speared his gut. Aunt Margaret was unstable—that much was clear. She claimed she would do anything for her son.

But how much harm had she done?

He set his shoulder against the door, splintering the wood around the latch in two hard slams. Constance greeted him on the inside with a ferocious growl, charging at him with her hackles raised. But he sidestepped the danger of the protective little dog and rushed toward the bed, where his wife lay still as death itself.