On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He was still sitting in the chair behind the desk, those letters and others before him, the shadows lengthening on the floor, when the door opened.

Amanda looked in, hesitated. Emotion hung heavy in the room, not threatening, yet… closing the door quietly, she crossed to Martin's side.

He heard her, glanced up, blinked-he hesitated, then put out one arm and drew her near. Leaned his head against her side. The arm around her tightened.

"They knew."

She couldn't see his face. "That you weren't the murderer?"

He nodded. "They realized within a few days, and sent off posthaste after me. But…"

"But what? If they knew, why were you banished all these years?"

He dragged in a shaky breath. "They'd arranged for me to go to the Continent, where all wealthy, titled scoundrels go when England gets too dangerous. But I decided if my father was effectively disowning me, then I didn't need to follow his instructions. Instead of going to Dover and then to Ostend, I went to Southampton. The first boat to sail went to Bombay. I didn't care where I went as long as it was far from England. From here."

"They couldn't find you?"

He flicked the pile of letters. "They sent couriers and others to search, but they never caught up with me because they were looking on the wrong continent. If they'd tried India, they'd have found me-I wasn't incognito."

With one hand, she smoothed his hair. "But surely someone in London who'd visited or had dealings with India-"

He shook his head violently. "No-that's the worst part." His voice sounded raw. She felt him draw breath. "They waited here-for me. It was like a form of penance-instead of living their lives as usual, going down for the Season, visiting friends, the shooting and hunting, they stayed here, in this house. From the day I left to the day they died, as far as I can tell they were here, waiting for me to come back and forgive them."

And I never did.

He didn't need to say the words; Amanda could hear them in his mind. His arm tightened about her; he turned his face to her side, for one moment blindly clung.

She stroked his head, tried but couldn't cope with the feelings-the empathy, the sympathy, the sheer frustration that all this-so much sadness-had come to pass. All because of one cowardly man. Whoever he was.

That last occurred to Martin. He disengaged, drawing Amanda down to sit on the padded chair arm. Lifting the stacked letters, he returned them to the drawer, then slid it shut.

What's done is done-the past is dead and buried.

He couldn't go back and make his peace with his parents, but he could avenge them-and Sarah, even Buxton-see that whoever had destroyed their lives was brought to justice, then go on as his parents would have wanted and hoped he would.

He refocused. "I came here to find my father's entertaining ledger. He was a regimented man, exact, precise. He kept a book with all those invited for each family gathering, and marked down who turned up and when. He used to keep it in this desk…"

It was in the bottom drawer. He lifted it out, blew off the dust, then flicked through the pages.

"One thing I don't understand-if they knew, why didn't your parents clear your name?"

He glanced up, saw her concern for him in her eyes, managed a fleeting halfsmile. "It's in the letters. My father imagined making a formal declaration-a grand gesture before all the ton. It was the sort of thing he would do, in expiation.

But he wanted me there, by his side, when he did it." He looked back at the ledger. "He died unexpectedly."

The matter had been too painful a subject, a guilt so deep his father had not been able to face it, not without the promise of absolution his presence would have given.

"How did you hear that he'd died, that you could return?"

"After a few years away, I engaged a London solicitor to watch over my interests here. It was from him I learned of my mother's death, and more recently of… my father's."

His tone alerted her; she glanced at the ledger. "What?"

It took a moment before he could say, "I told you my father loved family gatherings. After that Easter, there are no further entries."

No further gatherings. They'd lived here, all alone, completely cut off from family and friends, as he had been. He sighed, felt the blame and the bitterness, his companions for years, dissipate, flow away; his parents had suffered far more than he.

Jaw setting, he placed the ledger open on the table. "This is the list of all those who attended that Easter."