On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Stiffly, Reggie inclined his head.

"Sit down." Resuming his position beside her, Martin waved Edward to the chaise next to Reggie-the only available seat, facing Martin, next to Luc.

"If you don't mind, I'll warm myself by the fire for a moment." Edward stepped past Reggie to stand before the hearth. "It's deuced chilly outside."

On the words, the doorbell rang. Voices sounded in the hall, then footsteps neared. A knock fell on the door. When Martin called, "Enter," Jules came in, carrying a brown-paper-wrapped package done up with string.

Martin rose; Jules presented the package to him. "The old lady wished you well."

Jules bowed, then withdrew.

Martin looked at the package, then tugged at the string. His face unreadable, he spread opened the paper, revealing the girlish diary with its fraying ribbons and faded roses. He let the paper fall, in so doing turning the book so the word "Sarah's" on the cover was visible to Edward.

Amanda glanced fleetingly at Edward; he was putting on a convincing performance of being merely-distantly-interested.

Facing the group before the hearth, Martin opened the diary, read the first page, then started turning pages, flicking to the later entries-

Edward stepped forward, wrenched the diary from Martin's grasp, and flung it facedown on the fire.

The flames flared. Amanda leapt up with a cry. Luc was on his feet, as was Reggie. Martin hadn't moved.

Amanda sank back, half kneeling on the chaise, her gaze on Edward's face. One thing to imagine, another to know. She glanced at the diary; the fire was greedily consuming the old, dry pages, turning them brown, then black.

"Edward?" Martin's voice was level, calm but cold. "Why did you do that?"

"It's obvious." Facing them, standing squarely across the hearth, Edward lifted his chin haughtily; Amanda all but gaped at his dismissive, contemptuous stance. "You two-you never think of anyone but yourselves. Have you considered what pain you'll cause others by raking up this old matter-a crime that's been judged, paid for, the case long closed? The families-the Fulbridges, Ashfords and all our connections-finished with the scandal years ago. There's no purpose in pursuing the matter now. What can you hope to gain?"

His lip curled. "You"-with his chin he indicated Martin-"were judged and found wanting ten years ago. Regardless of whether you'd committed the crime, they all believed you had, so you paid, then, for your wildness. It was your own doing." Edward shrugged. "You were deemed the right one to carry the burden of guilt." His gaze raked their surrounds, the sumptuous, expensive decor. "You've managed. No reason you can't continue to bear the load. It'll be the best thing for the family." Edward glanced at Amanda. "Even if it means you won't be able to have everything you want."

Amanda knew just how a rabbit felt when facing a snake. She'd known Edward all her life; she could barely credit the coldness in his eyes.

"So," Martin said. Edward looked back at him and Amanda breathed again. "You burned the diary because you believe I should continue to bear the odium for a crime I didn't commit to spare the family further scandal."

Edward's expression hardened. He nodded. "It's for the best."

"Whose best, brother dear?" Luc ranged alongside Martin, blocking access, to the door. "Are you sure you don't want the old scandal left alone because any thorough investigation will implicate you?"

Edward sneered. "Of course not. Everyone knows-"

"That when riding you invariably carry a crop." Luc nodded. "Indeed. Just as we now know it was you who murdered Buxton-you who found him up on Froggatt Edge, who struggled with him and drove him to the lip, wielding your crop."

For a moment, Edward's face blanked.

Luc's lips curved but his blue eyes were cold as the grave. "That's right, brother dear. The crop. Martin never had one, never needed one. You couldn't manage a horse without one. And that, all the family knows."

Edward jerked as if Luc had struck him. His lips twisted oddly, then he refocused. "Nonsense! Anyone could have picked up a crop." He glanced back at the diary, nearly reduced to ashes.

"Sarah never kept a diary, Edward."

"Heh?" Edward jerked upright, blinked at Martin, then glanced back at the burnt book.

Amanda seized the moment to edge around the chaise.

Edward saw her, but looked at Martin. "What are you saying?"

"That there never was any real diary. We let it be known there was one, and that it identified the man who raped Sarah, the same man who killed Buxton to ensure he was never brought to answer for it-"

"To ensure his reputation, which even then was all he had, wasn't harmed," Luc put in.