Swear by Moonlight Page 8
"Shouldn't we wait until after we are informed of Alfred's death before we begin packing?" she asked.
Modesty looked vexed. "Of course. I can be such a fool sometimes." She stood up, and said decisively, "Well, we can settle nothing more tonight, and we will just have to wait until the news of his death is brought to us before we put our plans in motion."
A sudden rap on the door had both women exchanging a frightened glance. Taking a deep breath, Thea called out, "Yes, what is it?"
The door opened and Tillman's bald head appeared as he peered around the door. "Miss, I know it is very late, but there is a gentleman downstairs, who insists upon seeing you. I told him that you were not receiving visitors," he complained, "but he persisted." Walking into the room, he handed her a folded piece of paper. "He said that you would want this and that he would await your reply."
How she kept her features schooled, Thea never knew. Taking the paper with as much enthusiasm as she would have a live cobra, she opened the note and read it. Ignoring the fear that stabbed through her, she crumpled the note and said coolly, "Tell the gentleman that I shall be down in just a moment. Show him into the blue saloon—offer him refreshments if he wishes."
Tillman looked offended. "Very well, Miss, if you say so, but if you want my opinion—"
"I do not!" Thea said sharply. "Now do as you have been ordered."
Muttering, Tillman withdrew.
Thea glanced at Modesty. "It is the man I collided with as I left the house. He wants to talk with me."
"Should you meet with him alone? Should I come with you?"
Thea thought a moment, then shook her head. "No, I had better see him by myself." She smiled bitterly. "If I am to be exposed and condemned to hang, I do not want you involved. For the moment let him think that only he and I know what happened."
Her most haughty expression on her face, Thea entered the blue saloon a few minutes later. Telling herself that he could not prove that she had been out of the house tonight—her servants were loyal and would never give her away—Thea decided that her best course, right now, was to deny everything and keep denying it.
Shutting the door behind her, she confronted the tall, gray-eyed stranger. Attacking immediately, she began crisply, "And what is the meaning of this unwarranted intrusion? I do not know who you think you are or what you hope to accomplish, but I'll not have you berating my servants and forcing your way into my home this way. I've a good mind to send for the Watch."
"Perhaps you should... considering what happened at Curzon Street this evening," Patrick drawled.
Thea's breath caught painfully. "And what," she demanded, "do you mean by that?"
Patrick admired her poise if not her manner, and under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed sparring with her. But not tonight. And not at this moment.
"I think you know very well what I mean," he said, his gray eyes meeting hers.
Thea bit her lip. He did not appear to be a man who bluffed easily, but she had no choice but to continue on the path she had chosen. Her chin lifted, and she snapped, "It is very late. Even at the best of times, I have no taste for games, and I am afraid that you are trying my patience. I would suggest that you leave."
Across the width of the pleasant room that separated them, Patrick studied her. She was tall, but not as tall as he had first thought, and for a young woman with such a sordid past and wild reputation, she seemed oddly innocent and vulnerable. The two times he had seen her previously had been so brief that he had been left with only a fleeting impression of flashing dark eyes and a soft crimson mouth. Reality did not change that impression much, her eyes were still just as dark and compelling and that red mouth... He frowned. Dalliance was not the reason for his visit, but he could not pretend that his only interest in her had to do with the dead man in the house on Curzon Street.
From his very first sight of her in the park, though he would have denied it, he had been aware of a spark of interest. He hadn't understood it then and certainly did not understand it now. Knowing what he did about her, Patrick had expected to meet a calculating harpy—a harpy with whom closer acquaintance would kill whatever appeal she had aroused within him. Instead he was confronted with a slender, fairy-faced creature that looked as if she might have just left the schoolroom only a few years ago. She was also, he admitted uneasily, by far the most taking female he had seen in a very long time—if ever. To his alarm, he found those wide, eloquent eyes and intriguing features much, much too attractive.
Still frowning, he said, "And that is your last word?"
When she remained silent, he added, "If you take this attitude you may leave me with no alternative but to give evidence to the magistrate."
Her facade crumpled just a bit. Not meeting his gaze, Thea studied the pale blue and cream pattern of the rug that lay upon the floor.
She was in a terrible quandary. She dare not let him lay evidence, and yet she was terrified of admitting that she had reason to fear such an action by him.
Patrick watched her, wondering if she knew how appealing she appeared as she stood before him in her simple gown of delicately spun rose-colored silk, her features hidden by the curve of the lustrous dark hair that tumbled around her shoulders. He had come prepared for battle, determined to wrest the truth out of her—no matter how brutal he had to be. His problem was that the reality of his opponent did not match the picture in his mind of a scheming, hard-hearted little harlot.
Sighing, Patrick said, "I doubt you'll believe me, but I honestly do not want to cause you trouble. I simply want to know why you were there and what happened." A coaxing note in his voice, he added, "I swear to you that anything you tell me shall remain between us. We might be able to help each other."
"Why should I trust you? Why should you help me? You're a stranger—I don't even know your name."
Patrick smiled, a singularly attractive smile, the corners of his deceptively sleepy gray eyes crinkling. Bowing with exquisite grace, he murmured, "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Patrick Blackburne, late of the Mississippi Territory in America."
"That tells me nothing," Thea muttered, not willing to respond to his undeniable charm. Charming men in her view were particularly devious and dangerous.
Patrick straightened, his smile fading. "Perhaps the name of Lady Caldecott is more familiar to you? She is my Mother. The Baron is her second husband."
"Of course I know Lady Caldecott—everyone does," she admitted faintly, her heart sinking. Good God! Lady Caldecott—one of the most imperious society matrons in all of England, and this man was her son. Of all the gentlemen in London that she could have seen on Curzon Street tonight, Thea wondered despairingly, why did it have to have been him? If he breathed a word to his mother about her presence there tonight, it would be all over London in a matter of hours. Ruination and scandal, possibly execution, stared her in the face.
Patrick arched a brow. "Well? Does that make me more trustworthy?"
"Not very. I saw you with Lord Embry today, which means, I assume, that you are an intimate of his." Her voice hardened. "And Lord Embry and his cronies are as wild and scapegrace a band of fellows one can meet. Being friends with him does not raise you in my estimation."
Stung, Patrick snapped, "And I suppose your reputation is so spotless?" It was an unfair jab, and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.
Crossing to her, he grasped one of her hands, and said, "Forgive me! That was uncalled-for and ungentlemanly."
Slipping her hand from his, she smiled bitterly. "You have no reason to apologize—I know my reputation."
He glanced at her keenly. "And is it all deserved?"
"It doesn't matter," she said, stepping away from him, aware of how attractive he was with his black hair and dark, handsome features. It had been a long time, in fact not since Hawley Randall, that she had met a man who aroused anything within her other than wariness or indifference. But there was something about this tall American that inexplicably pulled at
her, something about him that made her conscious of him in a way she had thought never to feel again, and she was at once unnerved and distrustful.
Once she had established a safe distance from him, she looked at him, her expression troubled. "This conversation is gaining us nothing. I'll grant you that you probably mean well, but I have nothing to say to you. I suggest that you leave."
Patrick stared at her, disturbed by how disappointed he was that she would not trust him, but not surprised. After all, she didn't know him, and under the circumstances he didn't blame her. But he had to have her help. Whoever was blackmailing his mother had used the same Curzon Street house where Thea had been and a man had been murdered. Whether she or the dead man had anything to do with his mother's plight he didn't know, but at the moment, Thea Garrett was his best chance of discovering the identity of the person who was demanding money from his mother.
Patrick pulled on his ear, his expression wry. He wanted her help, but there was only one way he could think of to get it; he would have preferred not to reveal the only card that he held. Especially since he wasn't positive of her reaction to it. It could tip the scales in his favor, and then again, it could allow her to escape. He studied Thea a moment longer. From the stubborn tilt of that determined chin and the set of her mouth, it was obvious that she wasn't going to budge an inch. Blast!
Uneasy of his considering gaze, Thea said, "Mr. Blackburne, I do not mean to be rude, but I've asked you now several times to leave. Won't you please do so and save both of us an embarrassing scene?"
Patrick sighed. "I sympathize with your situation—I really do, but I'm rather in a pickle myself—you could help me." His eyes held hers. "We could help each other."
"I'm sorry, but your problems are none of my concern," Thea said stiffly, desperate for him to leave but frightened of what he might do when he did leave. Deny, deny, and deny, she reminded herself, but heaven knew it was increasingly difficult. Her nerves felt as if they had been flayed by fire, and the strain of the night was telling on her. How much longer she could maintain her composure she didn't know—the American was very appealing and when he offered help, she was almost frightened enough to take it—which frightened her even more. Trusting her fate to a man was not something she had contemplated for ten years—Hawley had taught her too well. But the American touched something within her... he aroused a shocking desire within her to trust him. Feeling vulnerable in a way she had not thought possible, she hesitated. Dare she risk it? Could she trust her own instincts? She dithered, torn between trusting... and not. In the end, mistrust won. She wanted him gone—aware that every second he remained increased the chance that she would throw caution to the winds and break down and tell him everything—and that shocked her most of all. It would be fatal to give him a weapon, to trust him with the truth. Oh, but it was tempting to do so—particularly when those gray eyes urged her warmly to do just that.
Not meeting his gaze, she forced herself to say, "Please leave."
Patrick took a turn around the room, stopping in front of her. Quietly, he said, "You've no reason on earth to trust me, but I implore you to do so."
Her dark eyes searched his. Even now, with her decision made, she was astonished at how very much she wanted to believe in him, to tell him what he wanted to know, but she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she muttered, "but you ask too much."
"Would it help," he asked softly, "if I told you that you didn't kill him?"
Chapter 4
Thea gaped at him. "But that's not true," she blurted out. "He was dead, I tell you! Dead when I left him." Realizing what she had said, she clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at him, her eyes wide and horrified.
Clasping her shoulders, Patrick shook his head. "No. You did not kill him." He smiled wryly. "Hit him hard enough to give him a damned painful headache when he awakened, that you certainly did, but you did not kill him."
"Are you certain?" she asked almost in a whisper, torn between terror at having so foolishly blurted out a confession and the fierce hope that he was telling the truth, that she had not murdered Alfred.
Gently turning her toward a blue-velvet sofa, his voice warm and coaxing, he said, "May we sit? This is going to take some time."
She nodded and allowed him to guide her across the room. Seated beside him on the sofa, her hands tightly fisted in her lap, she demanded, "Tell me! Tell what you know."
"Don't you think it only fair that you tell me something first?" Patrick asked reasonably. "Such as the name of the gentleman I first found lying unconscious on the floor?"
Relief poured through her. She had not killed Alfred! She had only knocked him senseless—thank God! But she could not quite believe it, and after the terrors of the night, she desperately needed the American to confirm his statement. Bending toward him, her eyes fixed painfully on his face, she asked urgently, "Are you telling me that he is alive? That I did not murder him?"
Patrick grimaced. "No and yes."
Thea jerked back. "What do you mean? What sort of answer is that?" Her gaze narrowed. "Are you playing some sort of wicked jest on me?"
"No. Absolutely not! What I'm trying to tell you—and badly at that—is that the gentleman was unconscious when I first laid eyes on him." Annoyed at the sorry figure he had played that night, he quickly told her of the person lurking on the stairs and his own bout of unconsciousness. "When I finally regained my senses," he ended ruefully, "and staggered back down the stairs, the gentleman you had knocked unconscious was still lying there, only now he was dead. But not," he added hastily, as Thea's breath caught audibly, "from your blow to his head. Someone had stuck a pair of long-handled scissors into his throat."
Thea blenched, the huge dark pools made by her eyes and crimson mouth the only color in her face. She remembered the scissors; they had been on the desk. And someone—the person she had sensed watching? had used them to murder Alfred. At that thought even her lips paled.
"Someone else murdered him?" she got out shakily. "But why? And who?"
Patrick knew the moment the possible identity of the murderer occurred to her. She shrank away from him and looked at him, with horror and dawning suspicion.
Patrick shook his head. "No, I did not kill him—I don't even know his name, so it is highly unlikely that I had any reason to kill him. And if I did, why would I come to you? You were obviously convinced that you had murdered him—which gave me a perfect alibi. Why would I come here and disillusion you?" His eyes locked on hers, he said softly. "You didn't kill him—I can attest to that fact. Neither did I kill him—I swear it. And now having, hopefully, relieved your mind of those worries, don't you think it only fair that you tell me his name?"
Thea bent her head, biting her lip. Dare she trust him? He wasn't, she reminded herself, asking for much, only Alfred's name. He already knew a great deal—the most damaging of all that she had been at the house on Curzon Street and thanks to her own unruly tongue that she had thought she had left Alfred for dead. What he said made sense; if he had murdered Alfred himself, he'd had no reason to seek her out. Aware of that, it seemed silly to hold back Alfred's identity.
Sighing, she muttered, "His name is, was, Alfred Hirst. He was my sister's husband."
"Ah, I see, your brother-in-law," he drawled, his very masculine mouth curving with faint distaste. "Keeping it in the family, were you?"
She flashed him a look of contempt and snapped, "You, sir, have a decidedly nasty mind. I did not meet him for some sort of tawdry assignation! I leave that sort of disgusting behavior to gentlemen of your ilk!"
"Touche," Patrick murmured with a wry smile.
Ignoring his comment and surprised by an urge to smile back at him, she said stiffly, "I disliked Alfred intensely—he was nothing but a common fortune hunter—but I did not want him dead." Rising to her feet, she murmured, "It is very late. I appreciate your kindness in relieving my fears that I may have accidentally killed him, but I cannot see that we have anything else to say to each other."
Her lip curled. "You must not have been listening to me—I detested him—I would not have wanted him dead, but I cannot say that I am sorry that he is dead."
"Well, I'm afraid that it is not that simple for me." He shot her a hard look. "Do you really expect me to take my leave and toddle off into the night—with both of us knowing that a man has been murdered?"
"I can't," Thea said tightly, "very well go and report his death—not without answering some extremely embarrassing questions."
"I agree and I sympathize. To expose oneself to public scrutiny would be most unpleasant, but unless you're willing to be honest with me, and help me discover what went on tonight, that is precisely what will happen."
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.
"You know very well what I mean," Patrick answered. "I had my own reasons for being there tonight. Stumbling across a murder was not one of them. However, since he was murdered while I was lying upstairs knocked senseless, I feel some compunction about his death."
"You wouldn't if you had known him," Thea muttered.
"That may be true—I did not recognize him, but his name is not unknown to me—I remember it from previous visits to England. His reputation, even among the wildest rakes and bloods, was not good."
"And you still feel compunction?"
"Perhaps," Patrick admitted with a smile, "compunction is the wrong word. I find the knowledge downright insulting that he was murdered almost under my nose." He leaned forward, his features intent. "I want very badly to know who murdered him and why. Don't you?"