Chapter Nine.

James trotted along a narrow lane, heading for the place where John had died. If he was going to start at the beginning, then he must look at the murder site.

It had snowed heavily on Christmas Day, though it had been tapering off by the time John had gone out. But his errand must have been urgent to drive him into even a waning storm.

The lane was hardly more than an overgrown track. He frowned. It provided access to remote grazing areas and a shortcut to an estate in the next shire, but it was rarely used. It would have been difficult to follow when covered with snow, so why had John been here?

His horse splashed across a stream and up a hill. A quarter hour later, he reached Brewster's Ridge.

What a fool Isaac had been-and still was.

During his years away, he had forgotten how desolate this area was. That was the memory that had tried to intrude that day in Isaac's office. Yes, there was ample cover, making the spot perfect for an ambush. The track was barely a yard wide and climbed steeply at this point, forcing horses to slow. Trees and rocks made it impossible to see past the next bend.

He shivered.

But though the ridge formed the boundary between estates, he could not recall who owned the next one. The families were not close, meaning that few people used this particular track. No highwayman would know this lane existed, let alone expect to find custom here.

An ambush meant that the killer had already been in position when John arrived, so he must have known in advance about John's errand.

But given the weather that day, waiting could not have been comfortable. The man would have needed shelter. Dismounting, James tied his horse to a tree and scrambled over the hillside.

It took him an hour to find it. Tumbled boulders formed a shallow cave. Charred wood remained from an old fire, though he had no way to prove who had built it. The opening faced south, and though trees obscured most of the view, he could see the ford in the distance.

Harry and Edwin were splashing through the stream. As he watched, they jumped a hedge and galloped out of sight across a meadow.

He would bet his last shilling that the killer had huddled here, dousing his fire when John reached the ford, then taking up a position to attack.

But how had he known John would ride this way?

He must question the staff again. Someone must have heard about John's plans and mentioned them to others, unless it was a servant who had killed him. But until he knew where John had been headed and how many people had known of the errand, he could eliminate no more names from his suspect list.

Those already gone had never been serious contenders anyway. This attack bore no marks of a highway robbery gone sour. The attempt Mary had quelled by the quarry made it unlikely that the murder was connected to John's affairs elsewhere. There had been considerable unrest among England's working cla.s.ses for several months now, but it had not started until after John's death, and it was not aimed at the aristocracy-yet.

Memories of France flitted through his mind. When he had been in Paris ten years after the worst of the Terror, fear had still lurked in many eyes. Even lords who had thrown their money and support behind Napoleon's new regime did not feel entirely safe. He doubted much had changed in the ten years since. He hoped to G.o.d that England would never face such chaos.

But he digressed. Perhaps Mary could discover where John had been going.

The thought brought a smile to his face. Drawing her into this investigation had been a masterful stroke, for it gave him an excuse to see her often without raising her hackles.

Mary was p.r.i.c.kly about anything personal, but he had made progress at yesterday's picnic. And he would make further progress when he next called on her. Perhaps they could stroll through the gardens where the servants would not overhear. Or maybe they could ride. He would use the murder as an excuse to recall the people they had known and the concerns they had shared ten years ago.

Sooner or later, he needed to discuss those subjects anyway. John would have targeted those people for his most vicious crimes. Learning the details was his first step toward making rest.i.tution, and discussing how best to resolve the problems John had created would soften Mary's antagonism.

l.u.s.t again snaked through his groin. How long before he could find relief?

The man crouched in a fern brake, listening.

Leaves rustled from a pa.s.sing breeze, then fell silent as if they, too, were listening. The stream flowed sluggishly, almost soundlessly, to his left.

Patience. He knew all about patience. Watching. Waiting. Always ready to take advantage of the perfect opportunity. The earl would ride this way soon. Had to. The ford offered the shortest route back to Ridgeway from Brewster's Ridge. That had to be where the earl was heading this day. He had been lucky to catch sight of him as he left the park.

Not luck, he reminded himself. G.o.d was on his side, providing this opportunity so he could find peace.

This time no one would interfere. Especially not Lady Northrup. He still had not decided if he must take care of her, too. Had she recognized the truth?

But he had more important matters to consider at the moment. He had planned every step of the accident. A rock would knock the earl into the water, senseless. He would stop the horse so he could lame it as if a stone had shifted, causing a stumble-he had already moved one. That would be his only moment of risk, for the water might awaken the earl while he dealt with the horse. But it was unlikely, he a.s.sured himself. The blow would do more than stun him.

Finally, he would make sure the earl was lying facedown. So tragic...

He swallowed his fury, forcing stillness onto his body. But he flinched when a fish jumped in the river.

Hoofbeats approached.

He hunkered lower, fingering the fist-sized rock in his right hand. Invective swirled through his head, pictures and memories reminding him why he was here. Some people did not deserve life.

Harsher invective swirled when he realized that the two approaching horses rode away from Ridgeway.

The earl's house guests laughed at some joke as they splashed across the ford. But they were not looking for the earl. Just two gentlemen out for a ride, he decided as they jumped a hedge and cantered across a meadow. Yet they posed a complication. He must be quick-quicker than he'd planned. They might return, and with little warning.

Silence. The sun inched higher, pressing a blanket of heat onto the earth. An animal scurried through the ferns. Silence.

He flexed his fingers as faint hoofbeats again approached, but a laugh stopped the antic.i.p.ation. The earl's friends were returning-which got them out of the way, he realized, breathing a prayer of thanksgiving.

Silently shifting, he peered through a low shrub, then cursed.

Ridgeway had joined his friends.

Another opportunity lost. Sighing in frustration, he dropped his head to the ground. How much longer until he could rest in peace? Job's trials were minor compared to his.

Horses splashed through the ford.

He did not move until they were gone, but as he crept away to his hidden mount, he was already planning. Next time...

"I saw one of your tenants today," said Harry as he and James walked back from the stables. Edwin had stayed behind to talk to his groom.

"Which one?"

"Jem Cotter."

"Problems?"

"Not that I know of, but you need to talk to him. He asked me several pointed questions, but what he really wants to know is if you plan to continue John's policies."

"Surely lowering the rents answered that question." James could still remember Walden's shock when he had ordered the reduction. The steward's mouth had worked silently for nearly a minute before he could get words out. And James's decision to collect no rents this year to make up for past injustices had nearly sent the man into a swoon.

"Not entirely. Cotter is wary. Perhaps John enjoyed raising false hope because dashing it caused so much pain."

My fault again. Or was it? If John had been seeking to hurt him, then he must have expected him to return to Ridgeway. How else would he learn what John had done?

Yet that was ridiculous. John had never been stupid. After tossing James out and threatening reprisals against innocents, he would never expect him back. Unless he had somehow intended to use the tenants' plight to blackmail him into permanently leaving the country...

He had avoided attracting John's attention when he returned to England, staying in London only long enough to arrange purchase of the Haven. But John could have found him if he'd wanted to-could have kept track of his travels, for that matter.

And probably had, he admitted, ignoring the pain in his stomach. Thus John would have known about the second fortune he'd earned in India, would have heard about the Haven's prosperity and the growing respect James received from his neighbors. Despite exploiting the tenants, and despite the regular infusions of unexplained cash, John had died deeply in debt. How that must have rankled.

Jealousy. Even admitting John's need for power had not opened his eyes to the entire truth. Why had he never understood? Despite his instinctive decision to never compete against John-even choosing to attend different schools-he had earned numerous accolades over the years. Only now did he realize that John's most vicious acts had always followed one of his own triumphs.

He could never again chastise anyone for naive blindness. He had suffered from that affliction for three-and-thirty years.

His stomach turned over, forcing him to swallow hard. John had craved respect, but he had never understood it, instead settling for fear. To validate his worth, he had exercised his power on everyone he met, demanding obedience, punishing any transgression, and accepting the resulting terror as proof of his stature.

His eyes itched.

"I will talk to Cotter," he said aloud. "Jem was always the brightest tenant. Perhaps I can set his fears to rest."

And maybe learn something useful. Would Cotter know where John had been going that last day?

Cotter was repairing the latch on the barn door when James rode into the yard and dismounted. The look of terror in the man's eyes smote his heart. No matter how often he saw it, he still cringed. Perhaps he should wear a sack over his head or grow a beard-anything to differentiate him from John.

"My lord," said Cotter, doffing his cap.

"Jem." Tears tickled his eyes as he took in the barn and other buildings. All seemed on the verge of tumbling down. The thatch on the cottage was rotting. Fences were in disrepair. Dear G.o.d, how could anyone force his dependents to live in such squalor?

He turned back to Jem. "Somehow I will rectify my brother's abuses."

Cotter nodded, but said nothing.

"Give me a chance, Jem," he pleaded. Not that the tenants would have much choice, he conceded silently. They had nowhere else to go. He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, Cotter hadn't moved a muscle. "We'll discuss your farm later, but first I need to ask about Walden. I cannot keep him on, for he is a.s.sociated too closely with John's spite. Did he willingly carry out John's orders, or did he do so under duress?"

"Why?"

"I must decide whether to write him a recommendation. Talk to me, Jem. You are the smartest man on the estate and the only one I can trust to tell me the truth."

Something flared in Jem's eyes. He held his pose of studied deference a few seconds longer before fury engulfed him, Grabbing James's shoulders, he slammed him into the barn door.

Stars exploded through his head.

"Trust?" Jem bellowed. "How can you claim to trust me after threatening to throw me off my land unless I stopped ignoring John's orders?"

James made no effort to fight back, though this was too much like his last call at Northfield. Then the import of Jem's words punched him in the stomach.

"Oh, G.o.d!" Every drop of blood drained from his head as the full extent of John's evil penetrated. "When was this?"

"Eight years ago." But his voice was suddenly uncertain.

"Jem, I haven't set foot in Shropshire since my father's funeral. Eight years ago, I was in Naples-Italy."

"Then that means-"

"He was impersonating me, may he roast in h.e.l.l for all eternity. Devil take it, I never believed he could go this far."

Jem was shaking as he brushed splinters from James's coat. "I shoulda known. I shoulda known. But you always looked so different. I never had no trouble tellin' you apart before."

"Yet the faces were identical." John had not always glowered. He had been capable of smiles and charm. That was how he had seduced so many women.

"You really stayed away?" Jem's voice cracked, driving new pain into James's heart.

"I thought it would help. John threatened reprisals against all of you if I returned. I should have realized that he had other reasons for wanting me gone."

"He always was a shifty one."

He nodded. "I did not return to England until five years ago. I've lived in Lincolnshire since then."

"Forgive me for striking you, my lord."

"Of course," he said, though they both knew the offense was grounds for transportation. "You had more than ample cause. How often did he impersonate me?"

"Often enough the first couple of years. You'd show up at the Court for a day or two-looking for something to p.a.w.n, like as not, striking any as tried to keep you out, then reminding them to stay quiet because John would do worse if he learned they'd let you in. Everyone knew that meant a beating besides being turned off-and sometimes transportation. After that, he stopped identifying himself by name. We never knew who was here. He'd do things one visit that he denied the next. Many's the man who won't believe it wasn't you, but it's glad I am to know you haven't changed so very much."

"Thank you, Jem." A weight lifted from his shoulders, lightening his heart. This explained the staffs continued suspicion. He would have to sit down with Forties and Mrs. Washburn. If he could convince them of the truth, perhaps they could persuade the rest. If not, he would have no choice but to let the servants go and start over.

He frowned. It might be better if he paved the way by encouraging his valet and groom to talk about their travels. Proving he was out of the country would raise enough doubts that most would accept the rest.

"You asked about Walden." Jem paused in thought. "I can't say how he really feels. He carried out every order, right enough. Real scrupulous about it, but he never pressed beyond the exact order. If John told him to raise rents if the price of rye went up, he would do nothing if barley rose."

"Did he ever lend a hand like Forces and Mrs. Washburn?"

"So you know about that?"

He nodded."

"There's some as woulda died without them."

Another nod.

"No, Walden never helped a soul-but more from weakness than evil. The earl woulda turned him off and seen he never got another position. Walden has no family he could turn to if that happened."

"I will write him a reference, then. But I cannot keep him here. I need men of conviction in my employ-and compa.s.sion. I can't know everything, so I want people to tell me their problems."

"You'll have to be patient. Most will hold off for a good long time out of fear."