Deeply In You Page 30

  “I’m holding the pistol, Your Grace. Turner was a damned fool. He handed over blackmail money to our employer. But I know I can get a fortune out of you, Greybrooke. Wouldn’t you like to keep your little sister’s sins a secret? You wouldn’t want the sordid story of your murdering sister to come out—”

  Grey lunged, and Helena screamed, “No, you mustn’t. He’ll shoot you!”

  Grey stopped dead, as if frozen in time. Whitehall, shaking, trained the pistol on him. “I want twenty thousand pounds, Your Grace. Or I shoot you now.”

  Helena stared at Grey’s back. There was a bulge under his neat-fitting blue coat, at the small of his back. He must have a pistol.

  “You can’t pay him, Grey. It will never stop. It would be better to publish the story about Maryanne.” She prayed Grey understood what she was doing.

  Whitehall jerked his attention to her. “Shut up, you stupid bitch.” Then Grey’s hand moved like lightning to the back of his coat. Whitehall swung back toward him and pulled the trigger.

  A roar almost burst her eardrums. An explosion of smoke filled the small space. A second shot came. Through the billowing pistol smoke, Whitehall stumbled back. The pistol fell from his grasp as his back slammed into the scenery behind him.

  Grey held the smooth mahogany handle of a dueling pistol, and black smoke still swirled from the muzzle. His eyes were like ice, his face cold. Whitehall had shot first, but because she had distracted him, his shot must have gone wide.

  Grey’s shot had caught Whitehall through the shoulder. The fiend slumped to the ground. “Not going to hang. They won’t hang me. . . .”

  Something glinted in Whitehall’s gloved hand.

  “Another pistol,” she gasped.

  But Whitehall slashed his hand across his own throat in a swift, vicious motion. At once, a dark stain covered his skin and his hand. Dark red blood poured over his arm, down his neck. His body jerked, and he made a horrific gurgling sound, as if drowning.

  Dear heaven, he’d slit his throat.

  Helena stumbled toward him, her hands outstretched. Could she stop the bleeding?

  Grey dragged her back. Not into his arms, but several clumsy feet backward, then he let her go. “He can’t be saved now. It’s too late.”

  She knew it. And they didn’t know who had hired him to target Grey. They could guess it was Blackbriar, but they had no proof.

  The icy cold in Grey’s expression was gone, replaced by pain. “No wonder Rains knew how to harass Caroline. I let you find out about that damned blackmail, and you used it. You told your brother. No wonder you told me to spare that damned Rains and his newssheet.”

  “I did not reveal anything about Lady Blackbriar,” she said softly. “The only thing I told him about was your father’s death. That it was murder, not suicide. I made Will promise not to publish it, but Whitehall forced him to do it. Whitehall threatened to destroy our family. He forced me to keep spying on you or he would have my brother beaten to death by the ruffians who work for gaming hell owners. Both Will and I had to do what he asked to protect our younger sisters. You understand that—how important family is.”

  “You told him about Maryanne, about what happened to her.”

  “I didn’t, Grey,” she implored. “I swear I did not. I have never told a soul.” That was the truth. She had not even told Will. “I don’t understand how Whitehall, I mean Morse, could know.”

  Grey walked away from her. He flung open a black curtain, and she realized this space was separated from the backstage area. The pistol shots had stunned everyone. Actors, actresses, workers of the theater stood motionless, staring in open-mouthed horror. Now they were moving, hurrying toward them. People began to pour through the opening in the curtain. A potbellied man raced forward, pushing his way through. He saw Grey and gasped, “Your Grace!” Nonsensically, he bowed.

  Greybrooke. The whisper rushed over the crowd, as people strained to see the now infamous duke.

  “The duke did nothing,” Helena cried. “This man was a villain. He threatened the duke with a pistol, and Greybrooke had to fire to protect himself. Then this man cut his own throat.”

  “We will summon the magistrate,” Grey said, his tone cold and aristocratic. “Send someone to Bow Street and fetch some of the Runners. At once.” He swiveled and glared at the tubby man, who wore a bottle-green waistcoat and blue tailcoat. “You are the manager here? This man is a murderer.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Perspiration gleamed on the man’s forehead.

  Helena felt raw panic. Grey had shot the man. Would it be believed he did it in self-defense? “What if you are arrested?” she whispered. “People will think—”

  “That the rumors and lies they read in newssheets are true?”

  Frost glittered in his eyes and coated every word.

  “My brother would not have tried to ruin you unless he was forced to. He was not working with Turner and this man. I said nothing about your sister. Grey, you must believe me—”

  “Why should I, Helena?” He crossed his arms over his chest. No one was moving toward him. Some people were hurrying from the theater—

  “I know I did not tell you the absolute truth. But I did it only to protect my family. I did nothing to hurt you, I promise.”

  “You lied to me.” His eyes narrowed, glittering and cold, like emeralds.

  She should have recognized the danger in his glare. Suddenly he pushed her back until she was pressed against a panel of scenery. His arms bracketed her head. His chest brushed her bosom, his breathing harsh.

  He’d moved her in a position to kiss her, but she knew, her heart plunging, he had no plan to do that. He turned to the actors. “Get out, all of you. Close the curtain behind you.”

  At the fury in his voice, they obeyed. Leaving her alone with Greybrooke.

  “He knew about my sister.” His tones were so low, no one else but she would hear. But that didn’t make them any less lethal and threatening. “No one knew about that, Helena. How in hell did he find out?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “How did you find out? Miss Renshaw would not have told you, I know that.”

  She didn’t want to tell him what she had done. “Truly, I never told another soul—”

  Slam! His hand smacked the scenery beside her head. “How did you find out? Answer me!”

  “I asked Maryanne.” Her voice was a croak.

  “What?” He leaned closer to her, and she twisted her head away, shaking. She clamped her eyes shut.

  “What did you say, Helena?” he growled.

  “I asked Maryanne.” She opened her eyes, looked in Grey’s hard, hate-filled ones. “I thought you had killed your father, but she told me the truth.”

  “She confided in you.” He spat the word.

  “Of course she did,” she muttered miserably. “I was her governess before, and she trusted me.”

  “You used that against her. You played on the vulnerability of a blind, defenseless girl who has been tormented by vicious memories. God, I despise you. You are not to go near the children or Maryanne—or any member of my family—again.”

  His words burned through her. “Of course.” What else could she say? “I will leave the house. I won’t take anything.”

  “The house is yours to use for a year. I won’t throw you out on the street. After the magistrate comes, you are to go to the carriage. Have them take you home.”

  “What—what about my brother? Don’t hurt him because you are angry with me. Please.”

  Grey said nothing. He walked away, throwing open the curtain. And because he was a duke, the remaining people stepped aside, parted like the sea, and let him through.

  She’d betrayed Grey, and that he could never forgive. She’d lost him forever.

  23

  “Obviously he didn’t throw me out on the street. I can’t imagine why not.” Helena poured tea for Will. She was trying to appear under control, but her throat ached and her eyes felt sore. She h
ad cried all the rest of the night. “I did betray him, and I’ve done nothing but lie to him. But you must tell me the truth. Did Whitehall ever tell you a scandalous story about the duke’s sister, Lady Maryanne?”

  Will shook his head. “He said nothing to me. But then he wouldn’t, if he was using it for blackmail.”

  Helena picked up her cup. She had expected as much. But how had Whitehall—or rather, Morse—found out the truth? That was what made no sense to her. She hadn’t told him. Certainly Maryanne would not have told him.

  “Would you tell me what the story is?” Will looked hopeful.

  She almost dropped her cup. “No. You will never print another word about the Duke of Greybrooke or his family. Promise me that, Will.”

  “But Helena—”

  “No! He and his family have been hurt enough by those stories.”

  “All right, I promise. But what will we do now, Helena? Since Whitehall was a fraud and was actually this actor Morse, there is no way I can pay my debts.”

  She knew Will was afraid. “There is a way. The duke gave me a spectacular necklace. The ruby is as big as a robin’s egg. It must be worth thousands.” She would have to sell off everything Grey had given her. Carriages. Furnishings. Anything that she could have kept to remind herself of him.

  That was for the best, wasn’t it?

  She was not homeless. She could stay in this house for a year. But it felt wrong to do so.

  But was there any point in standing on pride and leaving, putting herself on the street, just because staying was not the right and moral thing to do?

  “What are you going to do? Go back to being a governess?”

  She gaped at her brother. Could he really be so dense? It was all she could do not to dump tea on him.

  “Do you think the duke will still try to destroy the newspaper?” he asked. “You explained to him that I was forced to print those stories.”

  “I did, but he was furious. I don’t know what he will do.” She didn’t know what she would do. What if he did ruin them in rage? It would be horrible to spend the rest of her life hating him for hurting her family but still loving him for the man he was.

  “I cannot just walk away,” she said. “A murderer is out there. A person who wants to destroy Greybrooke. I don’t think that person will stop, even now.”

  Was it Lord Blackbriar? Morse had not told them. Blackbriar had paid the man, then if Morse had known about Maryanne’s secret, so must Blackbriar.

  Her teacup slipped from her fingers, fell to the table. Broke.

  Dimly she heard Will cry, “Helena!”

  If Blackbriar wanted to destroy Greybrooke for some mad reason—jealously, perhaps—what better way than to use Lady Maryanne? She had to go to Grey or to Lady Winterhaven and ensure they protected Maryanne.

  They probably would not even let her in the door now. But it didn’t matter. When she’d been a governess, what did she tell her charges to do? To take action and show courage.

  She stood, suddenly aware that Will was sweeping up her broken cup, staring at her strangely.

  “I have to go,” she said, and hurried to her front hall. She threw on her cloak, snatched up a bonnet, and summoned her carriage, aware that Will was still gaping at her as if she’d gone mad.

  If she did nothing and Maryanne was hurt, she would go mad. She had not been able to save Margaret when her sister was abandoned by her lover, Knightly. She would not fail in this.

  On the way to Greybrooke’s home, she bit her lip. How could a man like Morse have found out about Maryanne’s secret? No one could have overheard her in Berkeley Square, she was sure of that.

  Tackle it logically, she would say to children. Who knew about the secret?

  Grey. Jacinta, she believed. And Maryanne.

  One of those three had told someone. Could it have been Maryanne? Could Maryanne have confided in someone else innocently, and that person was working with Morse and Blackbriar?

  Her carriage turned in at the massive gates. Greybrooke’s house loomed in front of her.

  Helena jumped down and ran to his door, pounding like a madwoman on the thick oak. Grey’s butler opened the door.

  “I must speak to the duke. At once!”

  The butler—a tall, portly, balding man—lifted his brow. “I am sorry, madam, but His Grace is not at home.”

  “I know he has said he is not at home to me, but—”

  “I beg your pardon, madam. But it is not ‘to you.’ His Grace has gone to the country.”

  “The country. You mean one of his estates?” Where did Grey have a house in the country? A duke would have several.

  “He is the guest of the Earl and Countess Winterhaven.” The butler firmly shut the door.

  Grey held the bridle of Maryanne’s mare, Daisy, and led her around the paddock outside the stables at Winterleigh, his brother-in-law’s estate. Dressed in a blue velvet riding habit, Maryanne held the reins in one hand and rested her other hand on Daisy’s neck. In the country, spring was blossoming into summer. Flowers bloomed in meadows, and the trees were covered in green leaves. For Grey, it hurt to think that Maryanne would never see that beauty again.

  He would never voice that pain. He was always careful what he said around her. She had been much happier after Miss Winsome had come as her governess. Today, she looked unhappy. Not angry, bitter, and hurt, as she had done before. She looked troubled and afraid. Even though riding, with assistance, was something she loved to do.

  But when he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d shaken her head. “Nothing.”

  He knew he had to broach it. “Maryanne, I know you told Miss Winsome about what happened with our father.”

  Maryanne took a sharp breath. “No—”

  “I know you did. I’m not angry. Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, I would never do that. I promised you I wouldn’t, Grey. I would never break a promise to you. I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “I should have realized you would want to confide this secret. I know it has been hard for you to bear. I want you to talk to me when you are troubled. Don’t do something foolish, like trying to run away.”

  It was one of the reasons they had left London. Jacinta had caught Maryanne putting dresses and her underclothes in a bag. Maryanne would not reveal where she intended to go.

  The other reason was the attack on him and his wounds. He’d tried to keep it a secret, but Jacinta had learned of it from his servants.

  Grey stopped Daisy. He touched Maryanne’s hand. The girl bit her lip, tensing. In some ways she was like a skittish horse. “You’re safe with me, Maryanne,” he promised. “You always will be.”

  She burst into tears.

  He pulled her off Daisy into his arms and hugged her to him. But he couldn’t console her. She was saying something over and over. He couldn’t tell what it was for her hiccupping sobs. He held her tighter, put his lips to the top of her head.

  Then he heard her words. “I shouldn’t be safe. I shouldn’t be.”

  He stroked her back, kissed the top of her head. “Of course, you should be.”

  “I did something terrible. I can’t change that, Grey. I killed our father. I should have hanged for it—”

  “Did Miss Winsome tell you that rubbish?” Rage boiled in him.

  She shook her head. “Miss Winsome said it wasn’t my fault. But even if that’s true, you’re still supposed to hang for murder. If I stay in England, I’ll die, won’t I? I’ll be hanged.”

  His anger at Helena dissolved. Helena had tried to soothe Maryanne. “No. Dear God, Maryanne, that will never happen to you. It was an accident. One he brought on himself by threatening you, then attacking you. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  But she struggled in his arms. Her fists struck his shoulders, her body wracked with sobs.

  He had no idea how to calm her. Even Jacinta had no idea. The only one who had ever been able to get through to Maryanne had been Helena.

/>   He should despise Helena Winsome for lying to him. But what he felt was not anger. Just pain and gut-wrenching, heartbreaking regret.

  He took Maryanne up to her room. Then Grey took out his gelding, Brutus, and galloped down the drive from Winterhaven’s house. Rounding a corner, he reined in hard. A carriage approached, one he recognized. Hell, he had purchased the thing.

  Keeping Brutus across the drive, he forced the coachman to rein in. Then he walked his mount to the carriage window.

  God, she was exquisitely beautiful. Seeing her was like being punched in the gut. The pain was physical. “What are you doing here, Helena?” he asked icily.

  “I came about Maryanne. Grey, I must talk to you privately. Please—it is important.”

  He should send her away, but the look on her face stunned him. She looked as she had done when she had run after Michael into the street. He swung down off Brutus, handed her down from the carriage.

  Do not think that she smells like lavender and roses, and if you were to make love to her she would smell sinfully sweet.

  She gazed earnestly into his face. “I am worried about Maryanne. I realized that she might have told someone what happened. Is it possible she could have revealed the truth to Lord Blackbriar?”

  “It occurred to me she could have told someone else,” he said. “There’s something else . . . she feels she should be punished for what she did. She tried to run away, because she thinks she should be hanged if she stays.”

  “You must convince her that is not true! The poor girl.”

  “I am going to try.” He knew Maryanne would listen to Miss Winsome. But could he trust her?

  He wanted to touch her, but he feared that if he did, he would weaken. He would end up kissing her, caressing her, making love to her. And letting her touch him. Damn, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be like he was as a boy, so desperate for someone’s love that he left himself vulnerable.

  “I still want you. That’s the hell of this,” he said. “I can understand that you lied to me to protect your family. I can forgive you. But I can never trust you now. That’s something about myself that I can’t change.”