Samantha James (4 page)

Or perhaps all of them.

“She’s not what I expected.” Damien stared into the encroaching darkness. “I thought she would be like him. Like her father, a conniving, murdering bastard.” His tone was bitter, but then it turned almost accusing. “But she’s not. She’s intelligent. Beautiful. She has this—this air of sophisticated gentility about her. And damn it all, it—it irritates the hell out of me!”

Cameron studied him. “You must remember, she was probably no more than three or four years of age when she was last with her father. He was sent to Newgate shortly after her mother was killed. She may have been too young to even remember him.”

Damien turned to face him. “The story the villagers tell is that both her parents were killed in a carriage accident. You’re certain the man accompanying the woman in the carriage was not Heather’s father?”

“James Elliot is her father.” Cameron spoke with conviction. “I spoke with a woman who knew both her parents, James
and
Justine—and she mentioned they had a little girl.”

Damien’s jaw clenched. It was Cameron who had learned Justine had been killed in a carriage accident in Lancashire. “And you’re absolutely certain this is the same Justine who was married to Elliot?”

Cameron nodded. “There are too many similarities for it
not
to be,” he emphasized. “The daughter was the same age. We know Justine departed London at that time. The name listed on the passenger list was Justine Duval—her maiden surname. It
has
to be,” he said again.

“So why wasn’t she using the surname Elliot?”

Cameron’s features were grim. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps she was trying to get away from her husband. Lord knows he was a violent man—after all, he murdered those two poor fellows and ended up in Newgate.”

Damien’s knuckles shone white. His jaw clenched hard.

He asked the question he’d asked a hundred times before. “But that doesn’t explain why he would murder Giles.
Why?
As far as we’ve been able to discover, Giles had no enemies. And James Elliot was in prison for the last twenty years—Giles was just a boy when Elliot entered Newgate. They couldn’t possibly have known each other. It makes no sense!”

Damien fell into a brooding silence. His frustration was keenly apparent.

It wasn’t the first time tragedy had touched his
life. But he’d come home to England, only to find Giles barely cold in his grave….

Cameron laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know this has been difficult for you.”

Damien blew out a weary sigh. “You must think I’m ungrateful,” he said quietly. “On the contrary. Without you I’d not know where to turn next. You’ve been an immense help, Cameron.” For indeed, the magistrate’s investigation had turned up nothing.
An unfortunate accident
, he’d called it. Damien might have been convinced he was right. That Giles had caught his perpetrator in the midst of a robbery, and thus been killed for it….

But it appeared that nothing had been taken from either the house or the grounds. And more importantly, there was reason to believe James Elliot had deliberately sought out Giles at Deverell, the family estate in Yorkshire—that he’d been after something.

“But it was you who was able to point me in the right direction,” Cameron said. “If you hadn’t found the maid Corinne…”

Corinne. Damien’s mind traveled back. All of the household staff but the maid Corinne had stayed on to await his appearance, for Giles had expected him shortly. Indeed, he’d arrived within several weeks of Giles’s death. But Corinne, an upstairs maid, had quit the day after the magistrate had interviewed all the household servants—and disappeared.

The magistrate was unable to locate her, and so Damien decided to carry on his own investi
gation. Perhaps it was nothing; perhaps there was every reason to be suspicious of the way the maid had fled. Whatever the reason, he’d been determined not to neglect the smallest detail.

In talking with those who knew the girl, he discovered she had a sister in Northumbria—and it was there he’d found her.

But all was not as he’d thought….

At first Corinne had refused to talk to him. But when he confronted her about why she’d left, she’d broken down. “Ye cannot think I did it!” she’d cried.

Damien was determined. “What else am I to think? You fled the day after you spoke to the magistrate. Surely you can see why one might think you the guilty party.”

“I left because I was afraid to stay on!”

It was true. Damien could see it in her eyes. But an eerie prickling ran up his spine; every sense within him warned that she was hiding something. “None of the other servants left,” he pointed out. “You were the only one.”

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t! Lord Deverell was good to me! ’Twere someone else killed him, I swear!”

“Who, Corinne?
Who
?”

Her eyes darted to the windows of the tiny cottage. She began to shake as if she’d been submerged in an icy brine. Silent tears ran down her cheeks.

She was terrified…for her very life.

“I believe you, Corinne.” His tone was quietly
intent. “But my brother was murdered. I want to find his killer. I implore you, if you know anything that will help me, please tell me.”

It took several more minutes to coax and calm her, but finally she began to talk.

“I slept in a room off the kitchen,” she said. “And it was in the wee hours near morn that I awoke, y’see. I heard a man shouting—aye, and there was a terrible pounding, too!—but the man I heard was not the master, mind ye. I knew it, for the earl was not one to raise his voice in anger—ever. And it wasn’t coming from above-stairs.”

“Was it a voice you knew?” he asked quickly.

Corinne shook her head. “I’d never heard it afore in my life. I’m certain, m’lord.”

“What happened then?”

The girl began wringing her hands. “Oh, but I can’t believe how foolish I was! I—I crept into the hallway, for by then I could tell the noise came from the earl’s study. ’Twas dark, so I hid near the door, which was slightly ajar.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “The man inside…he was throwing things on the floor, against the walls. From what little I could see, the room was a shambles. And he was ranting, m’lord, screamin’ at the earl 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.”

“‘It’?” Damien’s gaze narrowed. “What was he after, Corinne?”

“I’ve no idea, m’lord. But the earl…oh, I
could hear that he was afraid, too…he insisted he didn’t know. But that horrible man—he wouldn’t listen! He cursed the earl—oh, so foully!—and accused the earl of lying. Of trying to keep it for himself.”

Corinne’s hands began to tremble anew. “The man whirled around and seized the poker from the fireplace. I couldn’t see the master, but I heard him…‘Mercy,’ he cried. ‘Have mercy.’ But that horrid man had none. I could see his shadow on the wall. He raised the poker high and swung it down….”

Damien’s eyes squeezed shut. His body jerked, for the pain that tore through him was like a blow to the center of his soul.

“And then I didn’t hear the master anymore. Oh, it was terrible, my lord. Terrible! He is a madman. There was such rage in him. I could hear it. I—I could feel it!” Corinne was crying softly now. “I—I knew what he’d done and I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I—I ran back to my bed and hid there till morn!”

Damien swallowed, his throat thick and tight. So this was how Giles had died…and for what?
What?
What had that bastard been searching for? The bedchambers had been torn apart as well, according to the magistrate.

He had to force himself to steady his voice. “Was this why you didn’t tell the magistrate? Because you were afraid?”

“Yes! I was afraid he’d find out I saw him and come after me! That’s why I left as soon as I could!”

He handed her his handkerchief. “Did you see this man, Corinne? Did you see him at any time?”

She dabbed at her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. “No,” she said in a tiny little voice.

She was lying. He sought to curb his frustration and didn’t entirely succeed. “You saw him, Corinne. Dammit, I know you did.”

She raised her head, only now her eyes were blazing. “And what if I did! All I saw was a glimpse. He was older than the earl, with grimy black hair, but so what? And once—once!—he passed by the door, so close I could see the thumb of his hand was missing, but so what—”

“Which hand? Right or left?”

“I don’t remember! Don’t you see, it doesn’t matter. It won’t bring back the earl—”

“No, it won’t. But with your help we can find his murderer. Would you recognize this man if you saw him again, Corinne?”

The girl leaped to her feet. “I don’t know! Don’t ye see, I just don’t know! And it won’t do no good to bring the magistrate here, because I’ll just deny it! If that man ever finds out I saw him, he’ll come after me. And then maybe one night I’ll end up on the floor as dead as yer brother!”

Damien tried to reason with her. “Corinne, please! I’ll send you and your sister away where it’s safe—”

“No! Ye can’t make me see him again. Do ye hear? Ye can’t!” She was adamant, but bleeding through her defiance was a world of genuine terror. “I’ll never tell another soul what I’ve just told you, m’lord, and that’s a promise.”

He’d thanked her and given her enough money to take her and her sister far, far away, then departed.

He didn’t blame her for thinking of her own safety; indeed, he was grateful, for now he had a trail to follow.

The man who had killed Giles had spent twenty years in prison…and was recently released. It was then that Damien had hired Cameron Lindsey. It wasn’t long before Cameron discovered that James Elliot—missing the thumb of his left hand—had left Newgate only days before Giles’s murder.

Slowly he brought his mind back to the present. Pain seared his heart, while the evening breeze cooled the fire of his anger.

So it was that his quest had led him here to Lancashire—and to Heather Duval. So it was that he masqueraded under the name Damien Lewis. So it was that questions circled in his mind like vultures around their prey. Was Heather raised under the Earl of Stonehurst’s wardship because her father had been in prison? What did she know? What did she remember? Why didn’t she use her rightful surname, Elliot? Why hadn’t her mother? Was Cameron right? Had Justine Elliot been trying to escape her husband?

“So.” Cameron broke the silence. “Do you want me to keep searching for Elliot?”

Damien nodded. “Meet me here six weeks hence, unless you hear from me. Should you learn anything of importance, send word to me at Lockhaven.”

Cameron’s expression was guarded. “You
know,” he said slowly, “Elliot may have gone into hiding to protect himself. It’s possible he may not resurface for months, even years.”

Damien’s jaw locked. “I’ll never stop searching. I’ll find my brother’s murderer, no matter what it takes.”

Cameron gave a wordless salute, then slipped away into the darkness.

Damien remained where he was. No, he reflected harshly. He couldn’t believe it would end this way. He
wouldn’t
. He had no patience for waiting. In time, he told himself. In time he would find James Elliot.

It was a gamble, but one he must take—and one that was worth the risk. James Elliot had a daughter, a daughter he’d not seen in twenty years. Surely he would return to his daughter….

Perhaps he already had.

It was noon, another glorious day. Sunlight streamed down from the sky in brilliant abandon. Birds trilled their songs from high in the treetops, proclaiming the beauty of the day to all who listened.

Heather slanted a smile of thanks toward the groom who helped her into the curricle. She was no sooner settled in her seat than the drumming of hoofbeats reached her ear.

He was right on time.

She inhaled deeply, curling her fingers into her palms. Her stomach had been twisting and churning all morning, for the thought of encountering her new estate manager again was…what?
Almost terrifying
. But that was ridiculous. She was a woman full-grown, and he was but a man like any other….

She maintained that very thought as he trotted his mount near; he rode a huge black stallion with massive flanks.

“Good morning,” he called out.

“Good morning, Mr. Lewis.”

“It’s a fine day, is it not?”

“Exceedingly.”

He reined to a halt next to the curricle, resting one strong wrist across his thigh. “Should I ride alongside you?”

“Not at all. Please, join me.” She gestured to the empty seat beside her.

He dismounted, handing his reins to the groom with a wink. “His name is Zeus,” he told the boy. “But don’t let that frighten you. He’s a pudding-heart if you scratch his nose and give him a handful of oats.”

He turned and, with one fluid move, vaulted onto the seat beside her. Briskly she snapped the reins, and they were off.

It was all she could do not to look over at him. Faith, but he seemed enormous—seated next to him like this, she could feel his size with every sense that she possessed. His legs stretched out far beyond hers, almost impossibly long; his breeches fit him like a second skin, clinging to the breadth of his thigh muscles. Had he raised an arm, her shoulder would have fit neatly into the hollow beneath. His hands rested casually on his knees. An odd feeling knotted in her breast, for, even relaxed, his hands were intensely masculine, the backs sprinkled with fine, dark hairs. His fingers were tanned, long and lean; she remembered well the feel of her own swallowed up within his. His skin had been so warm….

You ninny! Stop this!
she chided herself furiously. Why, she was acting every bit as foolishly as Bea had yesterday.

She stole a glance at him. “I thought I’d show you the estate buildings first, then stop in the village. I’d like you to meet the vicar, and I’ll introduce you to the shopkeepers with whom we trade. From there we can visit the tenants.”

He nodded. “By the way, I’m delighted with the house.” There was a small pause. “And it was quite generous of you to have the pantry stocked.”

Heather felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. “That’s quite all right.”

The wheel hit a rut in the road, jostling her shoulder against his side. Heather straightened immediately and held herself stiffly erect. If he noticed her reaction, he gave no sign of it.

They soon approached a cluster of outbuildings. She pointed out the smokehouse, the icehouse, the springhouse, a small blacksmith’s shop. The largest, she explained, was the dairy. It was there that she reined the curricle to a halt.

Damien leaped lightly to the ground, then immediately turned. She was barely on her feet when she felt her waist gripped by strong hands. He swung her to the ground; she flinched a little, for she was not used to being touched so by a man. Yet instinctively she caught at the wide span of his shoulders. Her fingertips registered hardness and warmth. The contact was over in a mere instant, for she hurriedly withdrew her hands while fighting an irrational fluttering of her stomach.

“Actually I’m quite proud of the dairy,” she said brightly. “I’m told our cheese is the best in the shire, and we transport several carts weekly
to Liverpool, since we supply many of the shops there. Last year we had to step up production, for the demand far exceeded what I expected.”

She was talking as she began to move forward, unaware that her companion was listening with half an ear….

Damien couldn’t help it.

God, but she was even lovelier than he recalled. Her clothing was less formal than it had been at their meeting yesterday. She wore neither gloves nor cap, but a simple gown of pale yellow muslin, embroidered with dainty white flowers on the sleeves and hem. Nor had she pulled her hair up in a severe bun; her long, shining tresses were caught back at the nape in a bright yellow ribbon. The color of a sunrise glowed on her cheeks and skin; the soft purple of summer heather came alive in her eyes. He couldn’t help but think she was like the gypsy he’d first seen in the meadow….

She turned and stepped toward the dairy entrance.

He felt as if a fist had plowed straight into his belly. This was the first time he’d seen her on her feet, he realized. But her movements were not smooth and flowing, as he’d envisioned. And in that mind-splitting moment, all he could think was that his perfect little gypsy was not so perfect after all….

He couldn’t help it. Stunned, he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Her gait was slow and hitched; her right leg lagged slightly behind.

His mind balked. A part of him was appalled. Dear God. It seemed almost obscene that such
blemish should mar this beautiful young woman….

Some unknown sense must have warned her of his shock. She turned.

But perhaps she was hurt…. “Forgive me, Miss Duval. We could have delayed this if I’d known you were injured—”

Something flickered in her eyes. “I’m not hurt, Mr. Lewis.”

Damien was at a rare loss for words. The awkward silence dragged on, for this was surely the longest moment in his life. Shame twisted his vitals. “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

It was a moment before she spoke. “I’m sure you didn’t,” she replied quite pleasantly. “But no matter, I’m quite accustomed to it.”

Perhaps she was. But she hated it. He’d known it the instant their eyes collided—the very instant her gaze became shuttered and cool. He longed to ask what had happened—had she suffered some injury as a child, perhaps? Yet something in her proud demeanor stopped him.

He felt like an oaf. “I’ve offended you.”

“No. You haven’t. But that reminds me. Would you please fetch my cane from beneath the seat?”

It was the same wooden cane he’d seen propped by her desk yesterday in the study. He felt like a fool for not having guessed.

Wordlessly he handed it to her. Their hands barely brushed. She withdrew hers quickly, as if she couldn’t bear to touch him—and little wonder. He’d hardly endeared himself to her just
now. She resumed her pace, her carriage almost painfully erect.

She was amicable and gracious as she showed him through the cluster of buildings, and they spoke with the workmen there. He had to force his mind to the business at hand, for a dozen questions circled through his mind again and again. Why did she limp? Had she been born with some deformity of the leg? Or had she suffered some injury long ago?

He felt foolish for blundering so, yet he reminded himself that he couldn’t have known. Of course he couldn’t blame Heather. It wasn’t the sort of thing one blurted out. Still, it didn’t make the next few hours any easier—for either of them, he suspected.

She was a cripple. Lame. He pitied her; he couldn’t help it. But pity was the last thing he wanted to feel for her. He couldn’t allow such emotions to cloud his purpose, to color his judgment in any way, nor could he let it sway him from his course.

On another, far different level, he couldn’t help but be impressed, for it seemed Lockhaven was both self-sufficient and profitable. The villagers greeted her with genuine warmth and the utmost respect, and so did her tenants. She embraced the latest developments in farming technology and encouraged her tenants to do so as well. Pride laced her tone as they traveled through the estate—and indeed, Damien could not blame her, for there was much here to be proud of. They passed ploughmen guiding teams
of oxen over wide, rolling fields, split here and there by hedges as solid and stout as walls. Plump, woolly sheep meandered across the land, while fat, lazy cows dotted the pastures.

No, he thought slowly. Nothing about her was as he expected.

Just then she turned down a narrow, dusty lane lined with juniper bushes and fruit trees. It ended before a low-slung cottage with a steep, thatched roof. A hound stretched out beside the garden lifted his long nose high in the air. His nostrils twitched as he caught a familiar scent—and an unfamiliar one as well.

Beside him, Heather tugged gently at the reins; the curricle rolled to a halt. Damien jumped down and reached back to assist her. She did not disdain his touch, yet neither did she speak. The dog rose and loped over. She called him by name, reaching down to scratch his mangy coat.

“Hello there, Samuel. Where is your mistress?”

The mutt’s mistress had just appeared in the cottage doorway, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun. When she saw the curricle, she gave a cry of delight.

“Miss Heather! Whatever brings you here?”

The woman was big and rawboned, older than Heather by a number of years—and heavy with child.

Damien remained where he was as the two women embraced heartily. “I told you I’d stop by to check on you this week, Bridget.” Heather chuckled, then glanced at Damien. “Bridget and
her husband, Robert MacTavish, farm this section of land,” she told him. “Bridget, this is Damien Lewis, my new estate manager.”

Bridget dropped into a clumsy curtsey. “It’s pleased I am to meet you, sir. I only wish my husband, Robert, were here to meet you as well, but he’s helping out at the blacksmith’s shop in the village.”

Damien inclined his head. “Then perhaps I’ll see him yet today, Mistress MacTavish.”

In the meantime, Heather had turned back to the curricle. “I have something for you, Bridget,” she said over her shoulder. As she spoke, she tugged two large baskets from beneath the seat. Damien quickly stepped back to lend a hand. She slanted him a glance from beneath silky, dark lashes.

“Would you be so kind as to take these inside the cottage for Bridget?”

“Certainly.” He lifted the basket from the curricle and stepped toward the doorway. “Mistress MacTavish, if you’ll just mind the door for me…”

Bridget hurried to oblige. Heather trailed behind them. Inside the cottage, Damien set the baskets on a small worktable in the kitchen.

“Oh, my,” Bridget breathed. “What is this, Miss Heather?” Bridget scurried forward. She reached out to flip aside white linen napkins, one after the other. “Cheese and bread…a ham—oh, and bacon, too! Oh, we’ll be feasting for weeks!”

“And I didn’t forget your favorite—two jars of
Cook’s strawberry jam from last harvest.” Heather’s eyes were twinkling.

“Oh, Miss Heather, you shouldn’t have.” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron. “It may be some while before Robert and I can repay you—”

Heather shook her head. Her hands clasped the older woman’s. “Don’t fret about that, Bridget. All that matters right now is that you take care of yourself and give birth to a healthy babe. Then, when you’re ready, your position at the manor house will be waiting for you. Now tell me, are you doing as I asked? Are you resting for a time every morning and afternoon?”

Bridget’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes, ma’am. Twice a day, regular as clockwork.”

“And are you able to put your feet up on a pillow? It will help when you sit as well, Bridget.”

“I am, Miss Heather. And do you know, my ankles have not been nearly so puffy.”

“That’s good, Bridget.”

“But my back…oh, it pains me somethin’ awful at times.”

Heather’s features were compassionate. “I know, Bridget. But it’ll soon be over, and, I daresay, it’ll be worth all the discomfort.” She squeezed Bridget’s hands. “It’s time we were on our way. I’ll come see you again next week, I promise.” She patted the woman’s swollen belly. “Now take care of yourself and that little one.”

Outside, Bridget reached out and hugged Heather fiercely. “Miss Heather, I pray nightly that this babe will be a girl! For if it is, I’ve
already told Robert we’ll name it after you—she’ll be called Heather, and I hope she’ll grow to be as kind and generous as you!”

Heather blinked in surprise. “You’d name your daughter after me? Really?” Her soft mouth curved into a smile. “I’d like that, Bridget. I’d like that very much.” She leaned forward and kissed the other woman’s cheek. Damien could have sworn there was a sheen of tears in those brilliant violet eyes.

She was still smiling when she turned from the lane several minutes later. Damien tipped his head to the side and looked at her. “Bridget works at the manor house?”

Heather nodded. “She’s worked as an upstairs maid for nearly four years now. But she’s due in less than two months, and last week it simply became too much for her.”

He continued to study her. “Are you a midwife?”

She seemed embarrassed. “Oh, no! Though I’ve assisted at a number of births alongside the midwife. She lives in the village just north of here.” Her eyes seemed to turn cloudy. “I only hope she’s able to come when Bridget delivers.”

Damien raised a brow. “She trusts you,” he commented quietly. “Somehow I almost think she’d prefer that you attend her.”

Heather’s expression was troubled. “Nearly twenty years they’ve waited for a babe, and none to come until now. Bridget was certain she was barren. Unfortunately, it’s been a difficult pregnancy. She belongs in the midwife’s capable hands, not mine.” She smiled slightly. “You
should have seen Bridget when she learned she was with child. I swear everyone in the neighboring shire heard her shriek with happiness. I fancy this babe will be spoilt as no other.”

As if on cue, there indeed came an excited cry from behind the curricle. Damien twisted around to see two small figures on horseback racing down the road toward them.

“Heather!”

“Heather, wait!”

Heather had turned as well. Raising a hand to her brow, she shielded her eyes against the sun’s glare. “It’s my brother and sister,” she said. Both surprise and pleasure laced her voice. “There’s Mama,” she murmured. “Oh, and Beatrice.” She pointed to where two figures had just come over the rise in the road. “Another sister,” she added. Snapping the reins, she turned the curricle around to await them.