Samantha James (19 page)

She gestured vaguely. “Just—just tell me the truth, Damien. It hurts more…not knowing.”

He nodded. “Remember when I told you that Zeus belonged to my brother?”

“Yes.” Her throat was so dry she could hardly speak. “He’s dead, isn’t he? I remember now—Paige said you inherited the earldom when your brother died.”

“That’s right.” His features seemed to shut down from all expression. He delivered these words into a tense, waiting silence.

“But he didn’t just die, Heather. He was murdered.”

Heather inhaled sharply.
Murdered
. Dear God…

“When I came to Lockhaven, I had but one purpose. To avenge the death of my brother, Giles.”

“But…there are no murderers at Lockhaven!” she blurted.

“No. But I thought the man who murdered Giles would come there.”

“To Lockhaven?” She was aghast. “I cannot think why!”

“I thought he would come there, Heather. I thought he would come…because of you.”

An awful dread crowded her chest. Her heart had begun to pound a bone-jarring rhythm. “Because of me,” she repeated stupidly. “Why would you think he would come because of me?”

There was a screaming rush of silence. “Because you are his daughter,” he said quietly.

Heather had gone very still. Her lips parted, but no sound came forth. Several heartrending seconds passed before she could manage a word.

“No,” she said faintly. “That can’t be. My father is dead. He was killed in the carriage accident along with my mother—”

He cut her off abruptly. “The woman in the carriage—Justine—was indeed your mother. But the man who was killed was not your father. Your father is a man named James Elliot, Heather.” Damien’s tone hardened. “And he is still very much alive.”

“James Elliot…” Her eyes seemed to blaze. “There, you see! He cannot be my father. My name is Duval—”

“Your mother’s name before she married James Elliot.”

She stared at him. “But my father…Miles…he knew them. I tell you he
knew
them! My father was a French aristocrat—”

“No.” His face was as unrelenting as his tone.
“I hired an investigator, Heather, the best in England. He uncovered the record of their marriage, the record of your birth. You are the daughter of Justine Duval Elliot and James Elliot.”

Her breath came jerkily. “That cannot be! Papa would never have lied to me—”

Damien’s arms came around her from behind. “I don’t know why he did, Heather. I don’t know if he’s aware that James Elliot is your father.”

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. Confused, her eyes sought his. “Even if it’s true”—she gave a tiny shake of her head—“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me? With Lockhaven?”

“It’s a long story, Heather. You see, I planned to visit Giles at the family estate in Yorkshire in early April. But when I arrived, Giles was already dead.” His voice carefully neutral, he told how he’d managed to discover that the upstairs maid, Corinne, had fled to Northumbria in the wake of his brother’s death.

“At first she wouldn’t say a word. I could see that she was terrified for her very life. But finally she admitted she’d heard something the night Giles was murdered. She had crept into the hall outside Giles’s study. There was a terrible row going on inside between Giles and a strange man. The stranger was tearing the room apart, throwing things, screaming at Giles and ranting about how he’d spent twenty years in prison waiting for this night and he’d not be cheated. ‘Where is it?’ he demanded. Over and over and over.”

Damien’s face was granite-hard. Heather was
half afraid to say a word. “So he was after something. But what?”

His eyes grew stormy. “I don’t know. I
still
don’t know. But whatever it was he was after, he didn’t find it. Corrine said Giles insisted he knew nothing of whatever it was the stranger wanted. He accused Giles of lying. Of trying to keep ‘it’ for himself. And then”—a spasm of pain twisted his lips—“he killed him. The bastard took a poker and killed him!”

Damien’s face had gone pale beneath his tan. It was a moment before he went on. “Corinne fled because she was afraid the murderer would find out she had been there and kill her, too. The murderer said he’d been in prison for twenty years. I had Cameron, my investigator, go immediately to Newgate. There had been no recent escapes, but he obtained a list of prisoners who had recently been released.”

She couldn’t tear her eyes from his face. “And James Elliot was among them?”

“Yes.”

Her lips barely moved. “But why do you think it was he? There must have been something—”

Damien’s mouth twisted. “Oh, there was. Corinne claimed she didn’t see his face that night. But she said he passed close enough to the door that she saw he had black hair, and a very distinctive feature—he was missing the thumb of one of his hands.”

Black hair
. Her dream slammed into her consciousness with the force of a wave crashing from the sea. The man in her dream had black hair. Her mind searched frantically. And there had
been something—something odd about his hand….

Her blood seemed to curdle in her veins.
No
, she thought. A scream bounced off the chambers of her mind.
God help her, no…

Through a haze she heard Damien.

“James Elliot was missing the thumb of his left hand,” he said harshly. “It was afterward that we found out he was married, that he had a daughter. Cameron managed to discover that his wife, Justine, was killed in Lancashire, and that there was a small child with her. Shortly after that incident, Elliot killed two men in a tavern and was sentenced to Newgate. But we had no luck finding him—we still haven’t! After spending twenty years in prison, I thought he’d try to find his daughter. I thought he’d come back to
you
, Heather.”

There was a vile taste in her mouth. “So that’s why you came to Lockhaven.”

“Yes. I don’t know why he killed Giles. I don’t know what he was trying to find that night. But I didn’t want him to realize I was on his trail. That’s why I used the name Damien Lewis. The fact that you needed an estate manager was a Godsend.”

“So you—you took the position in order to…to spy on me.”

She didn’t see him wince. “Heather, there was nothing else I could do. For all I knew, you might have been involved. I had no idea
what
you knew. I had to find out. I
had
to.”

Every breath burned like fire in her lungs. His every word burned through her brain, a litany
that played over and over. Damien had used her. Her father wasn’t dead. He was alive, and he was a murderer. Her father was a
murderer
.

She rocked back and forth. Her shoulders were shaking. Tears leaked from beneath closed eyelids.

“Why did you stay with me that night? To find out what I knew?”

“No!” His hands shot out. He turned her to face him. “That had nothing to do with him. That was just between us.”

“Was it?” The agony in her heart bled through to her voice. “How could you stand to—to lie with the daughter of your brother’s murderer?”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t do this, Heather.” His voice was low, vibrant and intense. “Don’t belittle what we had. I swear to you, that was the most precious night of my life.”

Misty violet eyes searched his face. He saw the muscles in her throat work convulsively. “I don’t know what to think. God help me, I don’t!”

The pad of his thumb passed over quivering lips. “Heather, I know this is a shock. I know how you must feel—”

“You don’t.” It was a stricken little cry. “How could you? All these years I thought I knew who I was…that my father was a Frenchman…. Why did he lie to me? Why did Papa lie?” Tears streamed down her face.

But suddenly she lurched upright, tearing herself away. “I want to go home,” she announced. Her voice was high and tight.

“No, Heather. Not like this.” His arms closed around her from behind. He snagged her back
against his chest, aware of the awful tension strung throughout her body.

“Let me go!” she cried. “You have no right to—to keep me here!”

“Heather.” He sought to calm her. “Heather, listen to me—”

She went wild then, struggling and twisting to be free of him. Damien cursed and tightened his arms. His hold was unyielding, though not hurtful, and her arms were useless, trapped against her sides by his steely forearms banding her chest.

Slowly he brought her around to face him. He didn’t release her but curled his fingers around the narrow span of her wrists. She was so stiff he felt that her entire body would surely snap in two.

“Heather. Heather, please listen to me.”

She spurned him, wrenching her face aside.

He cursed. “Dammit, Heather, look at me!”

She did—and in all his days, it was a look he would never forget. Her skin was almost bloodless. Her lips were tremulous, her eyes huge and wounded.

“What?” she cried. “What more do you want from me? Haven’t you taken enough? Haven’t you?” It was the sound of pure anguish, torn from deep in her chest. But it was as if her stricken cries took every ounce of her strength.

She swayed dizzily; her legs buckled. Damien swore and caught her up against him before she collapsed.

She turned her face into his neck and wept.

In the coach, she lay limply against his side. Her listlessness worried him. She no longer cried; perversely, he almost wished she would. She seemed so small, so young and defenseless. A pang twisted his insides. He longed to heal her wounded spirit, take her pain inside him and make it his own.

Back at the Earl of Stonehurst’s town house, he opened the door and lifted her to the ground. For the space of a heartbeat, his hands rested protectively—possessively—on the narrow curve of her waist. Even as he debated whether to carry her inside, she broke from his hold.

“I can stand.” Her eyes avoided his. She glanced inside the coach for her cane. Damien retrieved it and handed it to her.

Without a word she turned and started up the broad stone steps. He fell into step beside her, cupping her elbow in his hand. He thought he felt her stiffen, but stubbornly he left it where it was.

The butler admitted them. “Thank you, Nelson,” she murmured. “Are Mama and Papa at home?”

“In the drawing room, Miss Heather.”

Not until then did she deign to give him her full attention. Her posture stoic and proud, she turned to him. “Shall I have someone see you out?”

“Not quite yet.” His tone was unyielding. “The earl will want answers. And I’ve some questions of my own.”

Her lips thinned. Her cane rapped smartly on the marble floor as she proceeded down the
corridor to the drawing room. She fairly flung the doors wide. Like a shadow, Damien was right behind her.

Miles and Victoria were in the midst of tea. Two pair of eyes widened as they recognized Damien. Heather wasted no time on subtleties. “Mama and Papa, may I present Damien Lewis
Tremayne
, Earl of Deverell.”

Another time, their shock might have been humorous. Miles was on his feet in an instant, tall and imposing. Victoria’s jaw had dropped, her teacup suspended above her lap.

Miles had fixed his gaze on Damien. His expression was stony and forbidding. “I trust you have an explanation for this, young man?”

Damien didn’t back down from his narrowed glare. “That I do, my lord.” He nodded toward the sofa. “May I suggest we sit down? This may take some time.”

The atmosphere was thick with tension as Damien began to speak. In quietly measured tones, he repeated all he’d told Heather—how his brother, Giles, had been murdered, how he’d traced the murder to James Elliot. When he’d finished, a stunned silence swamped the room.

Until then, Heather had sat with her head bowed low, her hands folded in her lap. Now she raised her head and gazed steadily at Miles. “What have you to say on this, Papa?” Her voice was very quiet, but implicit in her tone was a stark demand.

Miles’s skin was ashen. He didn’t answer directly. Instead he looked at Damien. “How certain are you of this? How certain are you that
Heather’s father is still alive? That he is this man, this…James Elliot.”

Damien spoke gravely. “My lord, if there were any doubt in my mind, I would not be here. I don’t know why he killed Giles, but I will not rest until he is found and punished.”

Miles looked at Heather. His expression was anguished. Beside him, Victoria laid an imploring hand on her husband’s sleeve. “It’s time, love,” she said softly. “It’s time she knew the truth.”

Miles swallowed. She was right. His eyes caught Heather’s, then swung to Damien. Heavily, he said, “You’ll forgive me if I ask you to leave, Lord Deverell. But this is a matter best confined to the three of us.”

Damien had already determined that. He rose, then paused. “Of course, sir. But I must have the answer to just one question. The man killed in the carriage with Justine Duval—Justine Elliot—did you know he was not Heather’s father?”

Miles shook his head. “I swear to you—and to you, Heather—that I knew nothing about this man, James Elliot. The coach carried but three passengers. The driver was killed, and all these years, I thought the other man who died was Heather’s father. He traveled with her mother, Justine. She called him by name—Bernard. As she lay dying, she asked for him, whether he lived or died! Heather was with them. I was convinced they were man and wife. Indeed, it never occurred to me it might not be so.”

Damien nodded. With that, Miles escorted
him to the entrance hall. There he spoke for Damien’s ears alone. “There’s just one more thing. What you heard here today—I’ll not have it bandied about London. It must never go beyond this room, for I’ll not have Heather subjected to the scandal it would cause. May I trust you in this?”

Damien extended his hand. “You have my word of honor, my lord. It will never be repeated—to anyone.” They shook hands, and Damien departed.

Miles returned to the drawing room, his step as heavy as his heart. He sat, placed both hands upon his knees and looked at Heather. “You believe me, don’t you, poppet?”

“You swore an oath; therefore, I believe you.” Her tone was flat. “But the fact remains; you said you knew my parents well. You said you met them in Paris!” She confronted him accusingly. “Why did you lie, Papa? You let me believe that—that stupid story all these years!”

Beside him, Victoria’s hand slipped into his; she squeezed his fingers encouragingly.

“I did it for you, poppet. I did it for both of us, because I—I could not bear to let you go! After the accident, you were too ill to be moved, and so I kept you with me at Lyndermere. By the time you were well, I—I loved you too much to let you go.”

Heather trembled. She remembered a time when she was very young, memories of being held safe and warm in a strong, comforting embrace. That had been Papa. Somehow she’d always known that. But she willed the memory
away, for she didn’t want to remember just now…she was too angry. Too furious at yet another man’s deceit…

“Both your parents were dead—or so I thought. You were an orphan. Your parents were poor; that much was obvious. But I knew that, if I were to give you up, you would likely go to an orphan house and I could not bear the thought of you in such a place!” His voice grew hoarse. “And so…I lied, Heather. I lied. I petitioned the courts to declare you my ward. I thought my chances would be far better if I were acquainted with your parents—with
you
. I told the magistrate your parents were my friends—your father a French aristocrat, your mother an English lady, on their way to visit me at Lyndermere and resettle in England.”