Sattler, Veronica (79 page)

In
an unbelievable web of plotting, she and her lover, Lord Andrew Hastings, had
substituted their illegitimate offspring for Lady Jane's stillborn child and
kept it a secret all these years!

A
secret from all except Jane Hastings, that is. The poor, wretched woman had
been kept befuddled through the use of certain drugs—for the letter went on to
caution Andrew not to stop administering these to his wife for a while
yet—"our herbal brews," Margaret called them. They'd thought her wits
clouded sufficiently that she'd not notice what they did. But somewhere along
the line, Jane did discover the truth, the proof evident in her possession of
these letters. Had she come across them after her husband's death? Hastily,
Mary thrust the letter aside and went on to read the next....

* * * * *

Brett
uttered a sigh of disgust as he viewed the unconscious figure of Lord Hastings
sprawled in an easy chair in the library, an empty decanter of spirits on the
floor near his feet.

"Well,
Elizabeth, it seems your father won't be requiring my chaperonage after all.
I'd say he's tucked himself neatly away and out of your hair for the day."

"Oh,
Brett, why must you be so flippant over what is clearly a disaster?"
Elizabeth's perfect pink lips twisted in distaste. "Oh, why did he have to
go and do this?" A cool rage settled into her gray eyes, turning them into
silver slits. "The Hastings men have ever been weak! My
father
—"
she spoke the word as if it were a curse "—my grandfather before him...
Auntie Meg always said it would be up to the
women
in our family
to—" She gave a mirthless laugh. "Ah, but I do ramble! And if I'm not
mistaken, that's a carriage I hear on the drive. Guests are arriving."

"I
suggest you see to your guests, then, Elizabeth. I'll summon a couple of
footmen to carry m'lord to his bed." Brett threw a final disgusted glance
at his host and turned toward the door. "After that, I think I'll go down
to the lake and watch for Ashleigh and your godmother. You certainly won't be
needing me around here for—"

"Oh,
but you cannot!" Elizabeth exclaimed, clutching his sleeve. Auntie Meg had
been adamant about the need to keep the duke busy here, to keep him away from
his wife at all costs, and the thought of failing Margaret in so simple a task
momentarily filled Elizabeth with dread. It had shown in her tone of voice and,
too late, she sought to cover her error. "Ah, it's just that I'm so
apprehensive about the day being a success, Brett," she said, recovering
herself. "I really need you here to give me moral support."

Brett
studied her face intently for a moment, wondering what had given rise to the
alarm in her voice. Elizabeth, in need of moral support for a social gathering?
Not bloody likely!
But if it wasn't the festivities she was worried
about, what was it?

He
decided to test her. "I'm sure that's my mother's carriage coming up the
drive. She assured me she'd be arriving shortly after me. I'm sure she'd be
more than happy to lend you the, ah, moral support you need, Elizabeth. I'll
ask her for you, if you like."

Elizabeth
had sensed his doubts and fought the panic that threatened as she sought to
allay them. They had left the library now, and she hurried to keep up with his
long strides, saying, "But Brett, my chief worry is that Ashleigh will
arrive too soon—before we've had a chance to settle everyone sufficiently, to
make our surprise effective. If she spies you waiting for her across the lake,
she may wish to hurry across, and that would spoil our timing. We really ought
to leave her in Lady Margaret's capable hands, don't you think?"

Brett
paused a moment. He turned and looked at her.
Margaret's capable hands?
Why
did that phrase cause chills to run up his spine? Suddenly he realized that it
was imperative, for far more than a satisfaction of his curiosity, that he
discover what Elizabeth was up to. Or perhaps what
Elizabeth and Margaret
were
up to!

"Elizabeth,"
he said in a tone that brooked no argument, "summon those footmen to
remove your father to his chamber and then follow me to your small drawing
room—now. You and I are going to have a little chat."

* * * * *

Mary's
hands clenched the yellowed letter so hard, the parchment began to crumble.
God
in Heaven!
she thought.
How could I have been so blind?

Her
eyes focused on a passage that leaped up at her from the page.

Do
you not think, my darling, that this backhand I've developed for these secret
missives is terribly clever? Since I no longer sign my name, it should be
impossible for anyone to connect them with me in the event they are
intercepted. I urge you to do the same when you write to me, for secrecy is
imperative.

The
backhand the unsigned letter spoke of was identical to that of the forged notes
that had falsely implicated Mary in an adulterous affair more than twenty-seven
years ago! And many of the characters resembled the forehanded script of the
earlier, signed letter.
Margaret Westmont
had been the one who engineered
her disgrace and exile! She'd long ago suspected Margaret as the culprit but
after arriving back here at the Hall and noticing Margaret's penmanship was in
a
forehand,
she let the matter drop and reluctantly dismissed her
suspicions—fool that she'd been!

But
even that old injury to her had not been the worst of Margaret's scheming. The
rest of this letter, and several that came after it, were apparently written in
response to her lover's pleas that she cease her scheming "to place one of
my own direct line in the ducal seat. The dukedom ought to have been the
firstborn's," the backhand went on to say, "and I intend to rectify
the injustice of an accident of gender by placing the correct heirs in the
Hall."

A
bitter smile found its way to Mary's lips.
So much for disguising your
identity through use of a backhand, Margaret,
she thought.
Any
schoolchild could put two and two together and discern who wrote this by its
dire contents!

But
suddenly the smile gave way to a look of horror as her eyes dropped to the page
of the final letter. It was written in response to the news that Lord Andrew
was dying. He had apparently penned a deathbed plea that his inamorata cease
her quest to unseat the present duke's line, and she had answered:

I
reject
your assessment that God punished us by killing Edward and our Caroline and
dear little Linley in that carriage intended for Brett. And of course I join
with you in grieving for them, but now we must consider the future, or their
deaths will have been in vain.

Installing
D. is out of the question. He is far too
weak.
But his daughter, our
young E., shows promise, and I intend to place our hopes in her—by making sure
she
weds the current heir!
So you see, my darling, you need no longer
fear over my plans for B. as something too monstrous to contemplate. The boy
will live now, for we must join his line to ours. The only danger will come to
those who might stand in the way of that union....

Mary's
hands began to tremble so badly, she dropped the letter and clenched them into
fists to still the tremors. The D. in the letter was, of course, the drunken
Lord David. Likewise, E. referred to Lady Elizabeth—and B.! B. was Brett—
for
whom the carriage that accidentally killed Margaret's daughter and grandson had
been intended! The heinous bitch had tried to murder Brett when he was but an
innocent child!

Stifling
the bile that rose to her throat when she was truly able to digest this, Mary
glanced down at the letter one more time, and forced her benumbed brain to
focus on its contents again. The words, "those who might stand in the
way," flew up at her, and she froze for one terrible instant, then jumped
to her feet.

Ashleigh!
The
one who stood in the way now was
Ashleigh,
and Brett's wife was at this
very moment alone with—
"Oh, my God!"
Mary choked, running for
the door.
I've got to get to the lake!

* * * * *

Ashleigh
tied the periwinkle-blue silk ribbons of her bonnet securely under her chin.
She was glad now she'd brought the bonnet along, for the sun's rays were
strong, casting a blinding glare on the water, and she'd been squinting as she
endeavored to watch Margaret's expert rowing.

She
marveled at the older woman's strength as she wielded the oars. They were
halfway across the lake now, with the Hastings dock just coming into view, and
it had taken Margaret almost no time at all to get them there.

Suddenly
the motion of the oars ceased, and Ashleigh glanced up from the periwinkle
folds of her lap where she'd been smoothing a wrinkle in the silk fabric.

Her
eyes found Margaret's face, and for a moment, what she thought she saw made her
shiver. The smile on Margaret's lips looked positively feral!

But
now Margaret was smiling pleasantly at her—wasn't she?—as she paused in her
rowing.

"I'm
awfully sorry, my dear, but my hands, I fear, are terribly unconditioned for
this sport these days. They pain me terribly right now, and I believe I've
begun to blister."

"Oh..."
said Ashleigh, "oh, dear! Is there anything I can do? I—"

"As
a matter of fact you can, Ashleigh, child. It really isn't very difficult to
get the gist of rowing. If I instruct you, I'm sure you can get us to the other
side."

"Well...
I don't know... I—"

"Of
course you can, my dear! You're far younger than I— and stronger, I'm certain,
despite your diminutive size! And you
are
wearing gloves!"

Ashleigh
glanced down at the delicate kid gloves she wore and had her doubts about their
effectiveness, but forced herself to shove these aside. If Lady Margaret had
been able to row them this far and was now troubled by blisters, who was she to
be selfish and refuse to pitch in?

"Very
well, Lady Margaret—" she smiled "—I'll give it a try."

"Good
girl," said Margaret. "Now, all we need do is exchange seats
carefully...."

* * * * *

Brett
raced out the front door of Cloverhill Manor just as the Earl of Ranleagh's
carriage was pulling to a halt on the drive.

"Christopher!"
he cried. "Take me on down the far side of the drive, to the lake!"
He pulled open the carriage door and entered quickly, to the astonishment of
the earl and his companion, Lady Pamela. Ignoring their bewilderment, Brett
stuck his head out and called to the driver, "Take this carriage on past
the house and follow it to the left at the fork. And hurry!"

To
Christopher and Pamela he added, "I'll explain as we go, but I have every
reason to believe Ashleigh's in danger! We've got to reach the lake—
fast!"

* * * * *

Mary
held on to Finn's shaggy neck as the barouche veered sharply around the final
curve on the drive leading to the dowager's cottage. She'd spied the dog basking
in the sun near the barouche as it waited outside the Hall, its driver prepared
to take her to Cloverhill Manor, and she'd decided to take the wolfhound along.
She feared Margaret might have Ashleigh well out onto the lake by now—
if
,
indeed, she's even allowed her to live this long,
she thought with a
shudder—and Finn's ability as a swimmer might be needed.

"Oh,
I pray I'm right!" she whispered to the big dog.
"I pray we're not
too late!"

* * * * *

Ashleigh
felt the small skiff wobble as she maneuvered to exchange seats with Margaret.
She stooped to clutch the sides of the boat to steady herself. As she did so,
there was a shadow of movement before her, and then she felt herself shoved,
hard, and all at once, she was toppling into the cold waters of the lake!

A
shriek of triumph, and then a burst of mad laughter met her ears as she hit the
water just as an impossible realization flooded her brain:
Oh my God!
Margaret pushed me in!
But then she felt herself sinking and all coherent
thought fled as her instincts took over, and she resurfaced and began to tread
water, trying desperately to acclimatize herself under the sodden folds of her
bonnet.

"Ah!"
Margaret's voice rang out. "So the poor fish can swim, can she? Well,
'twill do you no good, you little guttersnipe! I mean to finish you this time,
and then the dukedom will fall to mine!
Mine,
do you hear?" And
with a vicious shriek, she pulled one of the oars from its lock and raised it
with two hands over her head, like a club.

Ashleigh
dove beneath the surface, narrowly avoiding the oar as it crashed onto the
water's surface near her head, her mind ringing with a single, sickening
thought:
Margaret's trying to kill me!
She wondered how long she could
manage to dodge the lethally aimed weapon. The heavy, sodden folds of her gown
were tangled about her legs, dragging her down, making swimming nearly
impossible. Out of her blurred vision she saw the oar wielded aloft again.