Rohan looked across the vast Mountvale ballroom, built in the mid-eighteenth century by his grandfather, Alfred Montley Carrington. It was a splendid room—much too large, he’d always believed, but it had admirably suited his purpose this evening. There were seventy-five guests, every local family of any note within a twenty-mile radius. Even the ancient Mr. Loomis, a relic from the Colonial war who had actually stood at Cornwallis’s right hand when he’d surrendered at Yorktown, was grinning with toothless glee at Mrs. Pratt, who was young enough to be his daughter and Rohan’s grandmother. All the guests had appeared to enjoy themselves. He’d made his announcement midway through the evening, Susannah on one side of him, his mother on the other. He’d presented his wife to them with all the pride he felt, remembering only belatedly that he’d supposedly been a bounder and kept her in hiding. He’d been contrite. He’d pleaded youth and confusion. Of course, everyone had already known. Probably all their servants and pets had known as well. When their guests had congratulated him afterward, Susannah had pinched his hand, for he had been shameless in his manipulations.
And his mother had said, “Dearest, I vow never to aggravate you to the point that you will strangle me. I am convinced that your peers would congratulate you on how well you had killed me. Naturally, this group wasn’t much of a challenge, but still, you did well. I’m proud of you.”
Talk about proud, his mother and Susannah had done him proud. The long line of glass doors stood open onto the balcony. Fresh flowers from the Mountvale gardens and potted plants of many varieties were scattered around the room. There were even three palm trees he’d managed to obtain from a captain who had just come from the southern coast of Cornwall. The orchestra sat on a small dais at one end. At the other end were three long tables laden with food and drink.
It was one o’clock in the morning. To the best of his reckoning and Fitz’s, no one had as yet left. He wanted his wife, but he saw that she wasn’t on the dance floor. He hoped none of the local ladies had gotten hold of her and were hurling sweet-barbed questions at her upstairs in the lady’s withdrawing room. No, there was Lady Dauntry, and she was actually smiling at something her husband had said. That must surely be a miracle, he thought, although the champagne punch was strong enough to make a nun dance.
His mother was dancing with Colonel Nemesis Jones, a man of middle years and apparently the only man in the whole south of England who might be immune to Charlotte’s array of quite tangible charms. He heard her laugh—a real laugh, not one of her flirtatious laughs. It was the way she laughed with him. The way she had laughed with his father. He could tell the difference from the age of ten. Colonel Jones did not change expression, as far as Rohan could tell from his distance.
Where was Susannah?
He went on a mission of rescue. He was certain the old biddies were at her again. But who? Every old biddy he was concerned about was present in the ballroom.
There were several ladies in the withdrawing room, and they were suitably shocked to see him stick his head in the door. He was charming; he was chastened and apologetic. All three of the ladies encouraged him to remain. What he had to suffer because of his reputation, he thought, as he hurriedly removed himself.
He frowned as he walked down the long corridor to the nursery. He looked in. Lottie was asleep in her narrow bed in the small adjoining room, Marianne in her bed beside her.
No Susannah.
It was at that instant that he felt a sudden tremor of alarm as sharp as if someone had just grabbed him and shaken him. Something was wrong, he knew it. Dear God, what had happened? He’d checked with the men patrolling the grounds. He was told that no strangers had attempted to come into the house. He hurried to his bedchamber, flinging open the door. The branch of two candles was nearly burned down.
No Susannah.
He opened the adjoining door and strode into her bedchamber. At first he couldn’t credit what he was seeing. She was tied to a chair, staring helplessly at him from above a gag, making slurred noises in her throat.
At that point one of the candles flickered, wavered, and burned out.
“My God!” he yelled and ran to her. He pulled off the strip of petticoat and jerked the wadded cotton from her mouth.
“What happened? Are you all right? Who did this?”
Susannah was working her mouth to get the feeling back, rubbing her fingers over her lips. “It was Tibolt. I’m sorry, Rohan, but he forced me up here. He said you should have posted a guard near that little gate behind the apple orchard. He said it led to a small door into a chamber next to the library. He was indeed the man who put Marianne out on the ledge that first night, the man she said looked like you. He took the locket. It is a pity, but he saw it lying on the dressing table. He ripped off my beautiful necklace and took that as well.”
Who cared about the bloody locket or the necklace? He could only stare down at her, wanting desperately to believe that she’d made a mistake. He reached out his hand and cupped her chin. “He struck you. By God, that bastard struck you.” There was utter rage in his voice.
The other candle burned out.
27
THE GUESTS WERE FINALLY GONE. IT WAS JUST AFTER three o’clock in the morning. Charlotte, Susannah, and Ro-han were in the library, sipping brandy. Fitz and Mrs. Beete stood side by side in the doorway. Susannah’s cheek was bandaged. Rohan would have preferred to tell them nothing, but they were his family and so he’d told them most of it. Only George’s role in this had to be kept quiet.
“Lordie,” Mrs. Beete said, clutching a bowl of ice between her large hands as if it were a man’s neck. It was intended for Susannah’s cheek, to reduce the swelling. “Mr. Tibolt. I’m sorry to say this, milady, but he was such a little sneak as a boy. Always spying on the housemaids, hiding behind the stairs to see them straightening their stockings. I always hoped he would outgrow it.”
“True enough,” Charlotte said, staring down at her swinging foot. “He was a sneak,” she continued, not looking up from her slipper. “I didn’t know he spied on the maids. That was not well done of him. His father would have been appalled.” She had danced so much there was very nearly a hole in the sole of her shoe.
“Apparently he did outgrow it,” Fitz said. “He went on to more wickedness. I wish now that he would have remained a sneak. That would have been tolerable, but this? He actually struck her ladyship. My lord, what are we to do now?”
“First things first, Fitz. Her ladyship had to give him the locket. He threatened to take Miss Marianne, you see. He also told her that it belonged to him, to no one else, and that he had a moral right to have it, which is an interesting and perhaps telling thing to say.” Of course Susannah had told him and Charlotte everything Tibolt had said—strange, all of it. Neither Fitz nor Mrs. Beete had asked where Susannah had gotten the locket, thank God. Perhaps someday they would wonder.
“He will be the future Archbishop of Canterbury, if he chooses to be so,” Rohan said slowly, thoughtfully, his fingers still curled around his brandy snifter. “He could be the most powerful man in the world, if he chooses to be so. He would have ultimate domination.” He looked up. “This makes no sense at all. It sounds like some sort of magic potion, but what the devil could he mean by all his claims?”
“He was in such a rage that his eyes were nearly black,” Susannah said now. “I remember thinking that he seemed to be beyond himself. He was nearly screaming at me when he said all that.”
Charlotte rose and shook out her skirts. “Well, tonight was a success in terms of our neighbors. That is something. As for this, it is confounding. There was nothing else, Susannah?”
She raised her hand to the bandage on her cheek. “Yes. The reason my che
ek was cut is that he hit me with his ring. He cut himself with the ring as well. It was big, heavy.”