My Lord Murderer (20 page)

Gwen noted that Drew was very careful to absent himself from his house during the hours he knew that she would be awake. She ran into him only once, two days before they planned to take Tom home. She had, by that time, been living at Drew’s house for almost a week. She usually slept until dinner time, but that day she had awakened early. She had emerged from her bedroom while still pinning up her hair in a neat bun at the back of her head, and there were three hairpins in her mouth. She and Drew almost charged into each other in the hallway. “Oh!” she’d said, taking the pins from her mouth embarrassedly.

“I beg your pardon,” he’d said stiffly, and stepped aside to let her pass.

She had dropped an awkward little curtsey and walked on, but then had stopped and looked back. He was still standing there, looking after her. This time he’d bowed stiffly and was about to turn and proceed down the hall when she’d called out, “Lord Jamison, I…”

“Yes?” he’d asked, encouragingly.

“I must thank you for your kindness to my brother and me,” she began.

“Your thanks are not at all necessary, ma’am,” he’d said curtly.

“But I’m putting you out of your house,” she insisted. He remained silent. “There’s no need for you to leave your house on my account,” she went on. “Now, for instance, I know that dinner is ready, and there is no reason why you should not sit down at your own table…”

He raised his eyebrows. “Would you not object to my company?”

“I … I…” she stammered, “am not at all hungry this evening.”

He gave her a bitter smile. “I quite understand. But I am engaged for dinner with some friends, so you may feel free to have dinner … any time you feel hungry enough. Good evening, ma’am.” And he had turned and walked off down the hall.

By the end of the week, the doctor was so pleased with Tom’s progress that he gave his permission for Gwen to take him home. Tom could, by then, walk about quite steadily, his color had returned, and danger of infection had passed. If he had not had to wear an interesting-looking sling to keep his arm immobile, no one would have been able to guess that there was anything wrong with him.

On the very day that the doctor gave them the good news, Gwen decided to talk to Tom about something that had been on her mind ever since she had learned the details of the accident. The result of that talk left Tom sullen and angry, and Gwen had felt it expedient to withdraw to her bedroom to avoid any further argument. He sat at the window and sulked until Mallow entered to announce that Lady Hazel was waiting to see him.

He jumped from his chair and, as soon as Hazel had stepped into the room, he shut the door behind her and grasped her arm with his free hand. “Has she told you what she intends to do?” he asked without preamble.

Hazel looked at him with a calming smile. “When I was young, I was taught to greet my guests with a how-de-do, to bow to my elders and to offer them a chair.”

“Guest! You ain’t a guest!” Tom said impatiently. “And as for being my elder, you know perfectly well that if I started to treat you as if you were an old lady you’d box my ears.”

“Never mind, jackanapes. Let me sit down and catch my breath. The stairs are getting too much for me these days.”

As soon as she had seated herself, Tom began again. “But has Gwen told you what she intends to do about Drew?”

“Yes, she has.”

“Are you going to do as she asks?” Tom demanded.

“Of course. She is my daughter-in-law, and as dear to me as if she were my own daughter. Fond as I am of Lord Jamison, I cannot consider him more than a mere acquaintance. I have no choice.”

“Well, he’s more than an acquaintance of
mine
! And I’ll not let Gwen dictate to me whom to take as a friend!”

“Don’t be childish, Tom. She’s your sister. If your friendship with Lord Jamison causes her pain—and I know that it does—you too have no choice but to do as she asks.”

Tom groaned. “But she’s so wrong about him! And it’s so unfair to me!”

“I know, dear,” Hazel said with a sigh. “I had hoped…” She looked up at Tom questioningly. “Tell me, Tom, have Gwen and Lord Jamison been getting on while she’s been here?”

Tom frowned and shook his head. “Getting on! They never even
speak
to one another. He stays at his club when he knows she’s about. He only comes to see me when she’s in bed. My stupid accident has made things worse.”

“Yes, that’s what I was afraid of.”

“But how can she blame
him
for my accident? It’s the outside of enough, especially when he’s been so good to me.”

“I know, dear. But she needs us more than he does. If you remember that, you’ll find it easier to do as she asks.”

Tom’s departure from Drew’s house was to take place before noon on Friday, and Drew went to some lengths to arrange to be absent from the house that morning. He had said his goodbyes to Lady Hazel on Thursday afternoon and had then gone in to bid farewell to his young protégé. Tom had been somewhat melodramatic and incoherent in his gratitude, but certainly no plans were made for him to repeat the performance on the day of his departure. Thus Drew was quite perplexed to see the Rowle laudalet in front of his door when he drove his phaeton up at one o’clock on Friday afternoon.

His first reaction was to turn around and go back to the club. He had been almost completely successful in avoiding Gwen all week and he did not want to face her now. She had an uncanny way of cutting up his peace. Every time they met he came away from the encounter profoundly disturbed. An encounter with her invariably led to indigestion, discontent and sleeplessness. There was no doubt in his mind that he loved her. He loved her spirit, her fire, her sudden shynesses, her flashes of anger, her inconsistencies, her voice, her speaking eyes, the living glow of her hair. What he could
not
abide was her view of
him
. She had a way of making him feel like a brutish beast, and although one part of him was deeply drawn to her, another part wanted very much to wring her neck.

On the verge of turning the phaeton around, it occurred to him that Tom may have suffered a setback. Perhaps that was why the laudalet still stood waiting in front of the house. With a worried frown, he jumped out of his carriage and hurried into the house.

To his intense relief, he was informed that Tom had already left, accompanied by Lady Hazel, and, said Mallow, quite fit for the journey. It was Lady Rowle who still remained. The laudalet was waiting for her. The impassive butler gave his lordship a barely-perceptible sidelong glance as he informed him that Lady Rowle was awaiting him in the library. Lord Jamison raised an eyebrow in surprise, but after meeting his butler’s interested eye he nodded casually and went up the stairs with an easy stride. He was quite aware that his pulse had started to race rather alarmingly, and, to add to his intense annoyance with himself, his breath was quite irregular. The library doors were right at the top of the stairway, and although he could feel Mallow’s eyes upon him, he had to stop outside the doors to compose himself. Damn the woman, she certainly had a knack of upsetting his composure!

He found her seated on the sofa, looking not quite composed herself. She was wearing her pelisse, her bonnet was resting on her lap, and her fingers were twisting its ribbons nervously. As usual, the sight of her gave him a pang. The light from the library windows behind her lit her hair and reminded him of the morning he had opened his eyes at Stonehaven and seen her sitting in his bedroom. But then he could not see her eyes. This time they were clearly visible and were staring up at him, clearly troubled.

“Lady Rowle,” he said quickly, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I had no idea you wanted to see me.”

“It was not a long wait,” she said, sounding somewhat timid. “I could not go without telling you how grateful I am—”

“Please,” he interrupted, “don’t say polite nothings to me. I’d give anything if the accident had not occurred. But it did. Giving the boy—and you—the use of the house for a few days was not at all important. There’s no need to mention it—or think of it—again.”

“You are very kind,” she said, looking up at him with those troubled eyes. “You are making it very difficult for me to say something else. I find it quite awkward to bring it up at all, especially when you’ve been so good to us throughout Tom’s convalescence…” She paused uneasily.

Drew looked at her shrewdly. Here it comes, he thought. They had seldom had an encounter when she didn’t cut him with a little knife-blow. His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “Ah, I begin to see. You are leaving, and our ‘truce’ is about to end. We will now speak with the gloves off, is that it?”

“The gloves off? That is a boxing expression, isn’t it? I’m not sure what it means.”

“It means that the hands are bared, that the punches are not pulled, that the blows are sharp, clean, and honest.”

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes squarely, “that is how I mean to speak to you.”

“I should have known,” he said ruefully. “Well, my dear, when the gloves are off, the punches can be painful. Perhaps I’d better … Have I your permission to sit down?”

“Of course. Please do.”

He pulled a chair from across the room, set it facing her and—he thought with an inward laugh—close enough to touch her, should the occasion arise. She appeared not to notice anything extraordinary in his closeness, so absorbed was she in the problem of telling him what was on her mind. “You are quite fond of prizefighting, aren’t you?” she asked, somewhat irrelevantly.

He was surprised by the question. “Yes, I am. Boxing is a sport I enjoy both as a spectator and a participant.”

“I thought so.
I
hate it,” she said with a shudder.

“Many women of refinement seem to find it not to their liking,” he said with a careless shrug. “I suppose,” he added dubiously, “that this has
something
to do with the subject you wish to discuss?”

“Yes, it has. It helps me to explain to you why I must ask you to…” Here she stopped and looked up at him helplessly, unable to go on.

“Please go ahead,” he urged. “I’ll be glad to perform for you any service that I can.”

Something she saw in his face seemed to disconcert her. She tore her eyes away and lowered her head. “You are not making this any easier for me,” she said, twisting her fingers through the ribbons of her bonnet apprehensively.

He looked at her bent head, her trembling fingers and, as always, he melted. Pulling the bonnet from her lap, he tossed it away and grasped her hands. “Gwen, how can I make it any easier? Don’t you know that there’s nothing—nothing!—you could ask of me that I’d refuse you?”

Her head came up abruptly, the look of dismay in her eyes startling him. She snatched her hands away and jumped to her feet. “Good God, Drew, stop being so damnably …
benevolent
! All I want to ask of you is that you … leave us
alone!
”

Drew could only stare at her, dumbfounded. What was she talking about? Gwen, seeing the look of blankness in his eyes, felt a wave of remorse rush over her. This man who had murdered her husband and caused her brother to be wounded … this man was vulnerable to
her
. She could hurt him! But she didn’t want to hurt him; she didn’t want revenge. She wanted only to be free of him, of the violence, the masculine barbarity that lay hidden beneath his surface kindness. She sat down again and leaned toward him, determined to explain herself. “Listen to me, please,” she said, trying to keep her voice low and controlled. “I only meant that it would be better for all of us if we didn’t see each other any more.”

“But there’s no need to ask me this,” Drew said coldly. “I’ve not come near you since Stonehaven. Even this week here in my own home—”

“I know. I don’t mean only me. I mean all of us—Hazel and Tom, too.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Lady Rowle,” he said furiously, “not only have I scrupulously avoided you, but I’ve explained to Lady Hazel that I would not call on her either. However, I have invited Tom to visit me whenever he likes, and I don’t care to rescind that invitation. I trust you have a sensible reason for asking me to do so.”

“Drew, please understand that I … that it is difficult for me to say this when you’ve been so considerate all this week—”

“Come now,” he said bitterly, “don’t weaken. The gloves are off, remember?”

“Yes, you’re right.” She took a deep breath and went on. “Well, then, I think you are
dangerous
for us. I don’t think you realize yourself that you seem to generate—well, how else can I put it?—violence. You
like
fighting and shooting and … dueling…”

“Gwen!” he said incredulously. “You can’t
mean
this! I like sport, yes, but as for
generating
violence, aren’t you being ridiculous—?”

“Am I? Edward is dead, and Tom wounded. What else can I believe?”

“Good God! Are you blaming
me
for Tom’s wound?” He stood up in disgust.

“You yourself admitted to the blame the night you came to tell me about Tom, don’t you remember?”

“I admitted to giving him the pistols, nothing more.”

“That was enough, wasn’t it? They are
boys
. Loaded pistols to boys are like catnip to kittens. How could they resist firing them? I suppose you didn’t
mean
to—”

“You
suppose?
Good God, woman, do you think I’d have given him the pistols if I’d known the powder was—?” He suddenly stopped and slapped his brow with the palm of his hand. “Confound it, why am I
defending
myself?” he asked himself angrily.

“It is only natural to defend yourself,” she said in a kindly, almost patronizing voice. “One wants to think of one’s self as blameless. I don’t imagine that you see yourself in the same way I do…”

Drew stared at her and then threw back his head and laughed. As if a dam had burst in him, his laugh poured out in a torrent, loud and long and hearty. His shoulders shook with it, and he gasped for breath. When he finally could speak, he said with his mocking grin, “You’re quite right, my dear, I don’t think of myself in the same way you do. One doesn’t usually see one’s self as a
brutish beast
.”