Shades of the Past (26 page)

“Marry me, Vanessa.”  Adrian’s lips hovered above hers.  “Marry me soon.”

“If only I could,” Vanessa whispered, her heart splintering anew.

“You can,” he insisted then claimed her lips, silencing any further objections.  He kissed her long and thoroughly, communicating his great love for her with a most eloquent use of mouth and tongue.

Lacing his fingers with hers, he pressed her hands against the pillow to either side of her head.  Several more minutes passed before he broke their kiss, his lips traveling slowly over her and downward to capture  . . .

A sudden rapping at the door shattered the bliss of the moment.

“What the devil?”  Adrian lifted his head and glared at the door.  He turned back to Vanessa.  “Quiet, love.  Perhaps if we don’t answer, whoever it is will go away.”

Again the quick series of knocks came.   

  "Your lordship?" Timmons called out, his voice strained and thready as if overcome by some urgency.

"Lord Marrable?" he called again, this time his voice cracking.  "Forgive the intrusion at so abhorrent an hour, but Constable Grealey and a number of his officers have arrived from Hereford.  The constable is adamant he speak with you.  By the look of him, whatever his purpose is in coming, I would venture it does not bode well."

Tears stung Vanessa's eyes, blurring her vision as a fresh wave of emotion engulfed her.  Scarcely had she and Adrian descended to the entrance hall this morning when Constable Grealey and his officers arrested Adrian, cuffing him and leading him away—the charge, murder. 

Lawrence arrived within minutes of their departure, Timmons having had the foresight to awaken him.  Learning what had transpired, Lawrence rode after the authorities, vowing to do whatever he humanly could to secure Adrian's release.

For hours now, Vanessa and the family had closeted themselves in the drawing room, awaiting news from Hereford.  Cissy, Majel, and their husbands continued to debate the shocking events—in particular what should be done, if anything, before Lawrence's return. 

Fatigued by their endless discussions, Vanessa stepped toward the open doors adjoining the conservatory and paused at the portal.  She glanced across the space to the transparent, paned walls.  Beyond the barrier of glass, the landscape's autumn colors glowed dully beneath leaden skies.

Vanessa's emotions plummeted, the sight of nature's encroaching gloom tapping into her mood.  Her feelings remained raw, susceptible to such moments, the early morning events still vividly emblazoned in her mind's eye. 

Vanessa's throat knotted up as she recalled the initial shock on Adrian's face at the vile accusations hurled against him.  Recalled, too, how his look had next turned to one of blistering anger.  Again it transformed as his gaze leaped to hers in that final moment when the officers forced him out the door. 

Tears welled as she remembered that look with perfect clarity—a great shaft of pain piercing his eyes, and in turn piercing her heart clear through.  Adrian's nightmare had returned full force, a thousand times worse than before.

Vanessa dashed her tears away, her own anger mounting, her determination solidifying.  Adrian had been falsely and outrageously accused.  She must help him.  Though she knew not how precisely, if it required she move heaven and earth, then move them she would and more.

Her thoughts skipped to Grealey.  Little insect of a man, she fumed.  He'd been quick to produce a creased and soiled letter this morning, claiming it proof of Adrian's motives and all the evidence he required to make an arrest.

"Your wife had taken a lover," the constable proclaimed almost gleefully, holding up the mysterious folded paper for them to see.  "That was the cause of your last argument, was it not, your lordship—a detail you carefully omitted two-and-a-half years ago?" 

Grealey began to pace a circle around Adrian and Vanessa as they stood together in the center of the entrance hall.  Protectively, Adrian stepped before her, keeping himself between Vanessa and the constable.  But she'd never been the object of Grealey's interest, and like a hawk intent on the kill, the constable's eyes never left his noble prey.

"I will be direct, Lord Marrable.  When you discovered the truth of Lady Olivia's infidelity, you hastened from London, taking with you not even a single item of luggage.  You acquired a ticket on the first train bound for Hereford, your intention being to confront your wife and have it out with her."  Grealey's smile spread.  "And have it out, you certainly did.  There is no shortage of witnesses to the fierceness or duration of yours and Lady Olivia's quarrel that night.  Most everyone residing at Sherringham at the time was privy to it."

"I don't deny what you say," Adrian growled.  "But you cannot arrest a man for engaging in a shouting match with his wife when he learns of her betrayal."

"Ah, but the true mystery has ever been—what happened
after
the shouting ceased?" 

The constable stopped his pacing and held up the square of paper once more, smiling in earnest now. 

"Behold, a vital piece to the puzzle, come to us directly from Lady Olivia's unfortunate grave.  From her very person in fact, tucked into a hidden pocket in her gown.  I daresay, even you did not know that after your explosive argument with your wife, she penned a quick letter to her lover.  A most telling letter, I would add, even after these many years past."  

Adrian stiffened.  "I doubt there is anything of import Olivia could have written which isn't known to me already—excepting the actual name of her lover."

"No, no name."  The constable lifted his brows, shaking his head as he began to unfold the letter.  "She addresses him only as ‘beloved,’ that and no more.  Her opening lines read, ‘Adrian has found us out.  He is in such a rage, I fear he could kill us both.'"

"That is rather overly dramatic, even for Olivia," Adrian remarked, his voice tight.

Grealey pulled on his whiskered cheeks, his eyes fixed on Adrian.

"Some may not see it that way, in view of your argument preceding the letter.  She goes one to write you swore to divorce her, then shut yourself into your private study, stating you purposed to erase her memory 'with a bottle of brandy.'"

The constable glanced to the letter once more.

"Lady Olivia continued, beseeching her lover to flee with her.  She writes, 'Let us escape across the border tonight, or to the coast to catch a packet to the Continent.  I've ordered Bonnie to pack my trunk, just one, so we might be away with all haste.  Do not worry as to how we shall manage.  I am still Viscountess Marrable, after all, and have access to means that will secure our comfort for the rest of our years.  You know of that which I speak and, though I can hear your disapproval already, I believe your objections will give way to reason.  Do you not see, beloved, if Adrian ever found out—’"

Grealey stopped, lifting his beaded eyes to Adrian. 

"There the letter ends, the ink smudged as if Lady Olivia had been interrupted.  Perhaps she knew who her visitor was, perhaps she only heard his approach." 

"You cannot be sure it was a man," Adrian argued.

Grealey shrugged.  "For whatever reason, Lady Olivia ceased her writing and hid the letter.  It was intended for her lover and ultimate proof of an affair, after all." 

He took up his pacing once again. 

"It is my supposition, she hastily folded the missive and slipped it into the pocket of her gown.  My men nearly missed finding it altogether.  The pocket is of the sort that is cleverly concealed, its opening being positioned in the gown's seam, itself, so there appears to be no pocket at all."

Adrian clenched and unclenched his hands at his side.  "The letter may be morbidly fascinating to someone like you, Grealey, but it proves nothing."

"Circumstantially, it is enough, especially when added to what else we know.  Admit it, viscount.  Drunk and enraged, you went to your wife's bedchamber and during yet another heated argument, you killed her."

"That's not true!" Adrian vented angrily, taking a step toward the man.

Vanessa quickly placed her hand to Adrian's arm, cautioning him to hold his temper as Grealey spewed his venomous charges.

"It's easy to imagine the spirited Lady Olivia matching your furious words with ones of her own.  Easy to imagine your craving her to be silent, going so far as to place your hands about her throat to stop her flow of words." 

Grealey mimicked the gesture in the air with his thick hands.  Infuriated, Adrian started forward once more, but Vanessa tightened her hold on his arm, reminding that any show of aggression would be a mistake.  But the constable continued his badgering.

"You didn't know your own drunken strength, did you, your lordship?  And as you began to squeeze off Lady Olivia's breath, in the process you snapped her neck."

"That's a lie!  You've hatched your own twisted version of that night."

"Have I?  Do you deny seeking solace in a bottle of brandy as your wife claimed?"

"Yes, I deny it!" Adrian retorted.  "I did return to my study with the intent of drinking myself to oblivion.  But I smashed the decanter against the wall instead and left Sherringham.  You can ask the maid who cleaned the mess I left there."

"And just who is this person?  Is she still employed at Sherringham?"

"I don't know," Adrian snapped.  "You will have to ask Joan Timmons, our head housekeeper.  I didn't return to Sherringham until these last weeks and then only for my aunt's funeral."

Grealey stroked his drooping mustache, taking a step apart of Adrian and Vanessa.  "Curious that you chose to remain after absenting yourself for so long.  Even more curious that you opened the wall in the Abbey Ruin, exposing your wife's remains.  One must question why.  Did you wish to play me for a fool a while longer?  Or did you wish to clear away the debris of the past and exonerate yourself before you entrapped yet another young woman in your deadly web?"  His eyes shifted meaningfully to Vanessa.

The insult cut deep to its mark and Adrian broke from Vanessa's grasp, lunging toward the constable.  Instantly, Grealey's officers sprang forward, seizing Adrian and clamping steel cuffs onto his wrists.

"They are lies, all lies!" Adrian shouted out.  "You have no proof and you have no case—and you know it."  His eyes narrowed over the constable, glinting with fury.  "But then you aren't a man to let the truth get in the way, are you?  What's in this for you, Grealey?  Why have you been dogging me these years?  Will a sensationalized trial bring you fame?  Publicity?  A promotion to a prominent position?"

Grealey gave an unctuous smile.  "Something like that.  You are quite a prize, your lordship—rich, powerful, a member of nobility.  Scandal has a way of helping as many as it hurts."

Grealey started toward the door then turned back. 

"Oh, and you are quite wrong about my need for further proof.  This letter, the numerous witnesses' accounts, your knowledge of the precise location of your wife's body—it's all I need to establish my case.  I believe the court will see your guilt as strongly as I.  Besides, as you know, it is up to you to prove your innocence against this mountain of accruing evidence."

Grealey gave a curt nod to his men.  "Escort his lordship out of here," he ordered. 

After the officers had guided Adrian roughly out the door, the constable stepped toward Vanessa. 

"One day you will thank me, Mrs. Wynters.  Lord Marrable is not only suspected of killing his second wife, but he must also have arranged the carriage accident that took Bonnie Beckford's life and possibly another's—all to cover his initial crime.  I won't even begin to enumerate my suspicions concerning the death of his first wife."

"You are monstrous!" Vanessa blazed, no longer able to contain herself.  "Get out!  Get out this instant!"

Grealey jumped back, startled by her outburst.  But he quickly composed himself.

"You may have aspirations of becoming the next mistress of Sherringham, young woman, but I will remind you, you are not viscountess yet."

Vanessa took a menacing step toward the despicable little man.  "Then fear the day I do bear that title.  Fear it greatly.  The Marrables embrace the motto displayed on their crest—'Fierce when roused.'  Remember it.  It is no accident the family espouses that particular sentiment, I assure you."

Coming back to the moment, Vanessa wrapped her arms about herself as she continued to stand at the portal, gazing into the conservatory.  Her defiance of the constable had sapped her energies.  It had been well worth the look on his hairy face, even if she’d misled him as to her future status as viscountess.   Gratefully, he'd not been present to witness the ocean of tears she'd shed afterward. 

Of two things Vanessa was quite certain.  She'd never thank Grealey for anything, and once they'd all awakened from this nightmare, she would do everything possible to see him demoted out of the constabulary forever.  Grealey was an evil, demented little man who undoubtedly saw his star rise with Viscount Adrian Marrable's fall.  How many other lives had he destroyed for his own gain?

Vanessa inhaled deeply and drew away from the door.  Adrian was no killer.  On the other hand,
someone
was guilty of Olivia's death.  Someone who had been at Sherringham that dreadful night.  Someone who, unlike Adrian, remained free. 

Vanessa massaged her temple, a dull ache pulsing there.  Constable Grealey was correct on one count.  They needed proof of Adrian's innocence.

Glancing across the drawing room, she saw that Cissy and Majel were now seated on adjacent sofas.  Meanwhile, Henry and Nigel stood before the fireplace where Leonine Marrable's dark eyes seemingly watched from her gilded frame.  It took Vanessa several moments to realize Majel and Nigel were in the midst of some disagreement. 

"Consider the children then!"  Nigel threw up his hands in frustration, as if he were striving to reason with a brick wall.  "What with ghosts and bodies and talk of murder in the family—let alone Adrian's arrest—it's best we leave for our London townhouse immediately."

Majel thrust to her feet, her fine brows colliding over her nose and her color rising.  "Nigel Pendergast, you are more worried about your precious name being tainted with scandal than you are about our children, and well you know it."

"Majel, how can you—"

"I am not through!"  She cut off his words, slicing her hand through the air.  "If you wish to leave then do so.  But as I
am
your wife, you are already connected to the Marrable name and any scandal that might become associated with it.  Or had you forgotten that?"