Hold Me Close Page 15

  “Perfectly understandable,” she said, though she eyed the trunk with a certain degree of worry. Brayles had arrived quite obviously unarmed, but any number of weapons might be concealed in such a thing.

  Abigail Brayles, however, set her plate and teacup on the side table, and patted her mouth with a napkin. She went to the trunk and kneeled before it, undoing the lock. “Forgive me if I find nightclothes for the girls, Lady Grantleigh. They must be put to bed the moment the rooms are ready.”

  As the lid was lifted, Julia could see the trunk was full of a lady’s things, and a very wealthy lady’s things at that—costly fabrics and silken shawls, and little parcels of embroidered satin of the sort used to hold necklaces and hair ornaments. Miss Brayles had to dig rather deep to get what she wanted, displacing layers of woolens and stockings and fine lawn petticoats, until she pulled out a pair of child-sized linen night-rails and little lace-trimmed mob caps.

  Holsworth had been correct that the family had come into money.

  But nothing in the trunk looked the least bit dangerous. Except perhaps to other ladies whose wardrobes would have to compete with such finery.

  Brayles, meanwhile, sipped comfortably at his own tea, shifting his weight so little Kate, who’d quickly gobbled down her fill of toasted cheese, could nestle back to sleep on his lap, her thumb tucked firmly into her mouth.

  Whatever else the man was, he seemed a doting father.

  He heaved a contented sigh, patting his small daughter’s back. “It is good to be back in England,” he said softly, “if only for a short time. Calcutta was a hard place for us.”

  “Why is that?” asked Julia, hoping at last she might learn something definitive.

  Looking down at his child, Brayles brushed back a copper-colored braid that had drooped across her face. “Kate here had the worst of it. The heat and food did not agree with her. You can see how small she is for her six years.” His brow creased, and he stroked his fingers tenderly over the child’s cheek. “There were weeks at a time when she’d be seized by awful fevers during the night.”

  The older daughter, Georgina, whose attention had been absorbed by Cook’s famous raspberry-preserve biscuits, chimed in abruptly. “She’d cry and cry! And say she saw birds flying about the room! Big, ugly birds with black shining eyes that watched and watched us! I could never fall back to sleep afterward.”

  “It was delirium,” said Abigail Brayles gently, handing the girl another biscuit and resuming her own seat with the nightclothes in her lap. “We persuaded a Company doctor to see her, but we couldn’t afford to pay him much, and he stopped coming.” Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Finally, to get the money to bring him back, George had to pawn the family signet ring. It was the most awful time.”

  The ring. Julia’s breath caught in her throat.

  Brayles himself heaved a sigh now, and looked at Eleanor with a rueful expression. “Since you are here, Lady Eleanor, I suppose I must say a little more. No doubt you heard some stories about me at that time—some less than savory tales?”

  Eleanor’s eyes flew wide, but even she was too much the British lady to confirm what he said. She merely regarded him, allowing him to say more.

  “My brother had sent me out to Calcutta with perhaps an excess of optimism about how easy it would be for me to make my way there,” Brayles continued. “He did not mean to starve us, but the funds we had to hand ran out quickly. I sent letters home, but of course it can be months before a reply comes. In the meantime, in my desperation over my daughter’s health, I confess I began to frequent establishments that featured gaming. There was no society of gentleman there to assist me, and I had no other hope of acquiring ready cash. It was necessary to go where the soldiers went—distressingly rough places, I’m afraid. I thought with my superior education I might fare well against them, but…”

  “You did not fare well,” said Eleanor.

  “No.” He shook his head, looking humbled. “And the day when I was forced to pawn my ring—that was the very worst of my life.” He held up his hand, flashing the ruby at them. “This ring has been passed down in my family since the time of—”

  “Queen Elizabeth,” finished Eleanor dryly.

  Brayles nodded, apparently unconscious of any irony on Eleanor’s part. “Thank God,” he said, “within that very week, correspondence arrived from my brother, with a more generous influx of funds. And not long after that, we had still more excellent news. By happy chance, a business investment my brother made on my behalf—a small silver mine in the hills—hit a rich vein of ore, and we were well and truly saved from our woes. I was able to pay off the debts I owed, and bring in an excellent physician for Kate, far better than the first. My girl recovered, thank heaven. But even now, when she sleeps, her breathing is not quite right…”

  Julia listened closely, and she could indeed hear a slight rasp from the child’s lungs. And the girl was certainly on the small side, nowhere near as robust-looking as her older sister.

  The story made perfect sense—more or less what Julia herself had surmised when Holsworth first told her his version of the tale—and unless Brayles and his sister were consummate actors, their distress over their circumstances seemed quite sincere. The little girls, certainly, were too young to be lying about the fevers and the delirious dreams of black-eyed birds.

  Brayles looked at Eleanor again, a look of chagrin on his face. “I suppose, Lady Eleanor, Major Holsworth told you what he inferred about my conduct during this time.”

  This time, Eleanor did not make a ladylike demurral. “I will admit he did.”

  Brayles look dreadfully pained. “Holsworth mistrusted me. Or rather, he inquired into my private business, and misinterpreted what he saw. I admit that the man to whom I pawned my ring was of bad character, very bad character indeed. But that one exchange was the extent of my business with him, I swear. I’d thought because he was English…but never mind that. The moment I learned what sort of treachery he was involved in, I would have redeemed my ring with my own heart’s blood, had that been required.”

  “Holsworth mistrusted you?” prompted Eleanor. “Why was that?”

  “He was never inclined to like me.” Brayles mouth quirked uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I was unkind to him as a boy. You know the sorts of mischief boys get into, when they are thoughtless and young. But you must believe me—I caused him no difficulties as a grown man. He served king and country well in India, and I respected that. In fact, I made him some overtures of friendship when I first arrived in Calcutta, but he rebuffed me. And when Kate’s troubles started…well, I do not like to attribute motives to another man, but he shared his suspicions about me with other officers and gentlemen, even with your late husband, Lady Grantleigh, which meant my brother heard of them as well.” He blew out a hard breath. “Holsworth made things rather hot for me in Calcutta, for a while.”

  A leaden ball seemed to have settled in Julia’s stomach. She was less sure than ever what to believe.

  Brayles leaned back against the cushions of his chair, his face weary. “My brother can confirm the truth of my story, my lady. I know he made the actual facts known to your husband, when they spoke.”

  Oh. Holsworth had said nothing about communication between Christopher and Lord Edgerton. Surely Christopher would have informed Holsworth, if he learned Edgerton was the actual source of Brayles’ renewed wealth. Holsworth had stormed out the night of their argument, but Christopher certainly would have sent a letter to India informing him of the facts once he had a chance to speak with the viscount. Wouldn’t he?

  Or had their quarreling prevented it?

  Or had a letter been sent, but lost on its long travel across the ocean?

  Blast it all. Was Brayles lying to her now? Or had Holsworth indeed misjudged him?

  The moment she was out of earshot of Brayles, she’d send a footman of her own hurrying to Edgerton Park to ask the viscount for his side of the tale. But even if her man made good ti
me on the dark roads, it would be nearly dawn before she could expect a reply.

  Now Brayles shook his head meditatively. “It’s a strange place, India, that’s all I can say. A very strange episode in my life. I am so very glad to be done with it.”

  Before Julia managed to form a coherent response, Mrs. Collins, the housekeeper, appeared at the parlor door, looking expectant. “Ma’am,” she said. “The bedrooms have all been readied.”

  Abigail Brayles did not hesitate. “If you will excuse us, Lady Grantleigh,” she said, rising gratefully to her feet, “Georgina looks about to sink through the cushions.”

  Her skull aching, Julia rose as well. Nothing more would be learned tonight.

  With the briefest of farewells, the Brayles went off to their chambers, and Julia went up to her own, pausing only to scrawl a quick message to Brayles’ brother the viscount and send her most trusted footman on the fastest horse to Edgerton Park.

  After that, exhausted as she was, she could barely make logical replies to Peggy’s chatter as the maid helped her out of her dress and took down her hair. Her only clear thought was of the comforting solace of her bed.

  Though when Peggy left, Julia did take a moment to securely lock her door. And to wedge a heavy chair against it.

  Just in case.

  She crawled beneath the counterpane, expecting to drop off to instant oblivion. But sleep did not come easily. The bracelet seemed to push against her wrist, no matter how she turned on her pillow, and she couldn’t find a position in which her arm felt comfortable.

  And somehow, every time her mind did begin to drift, she found herself awakened by the strangest, most unsettling sensation that Holsworth was in the room with her.

  And that his hand was holding hers.

  12

  Something bumped in the darkness.

  Julia sat up in bed, confused, trying to will herself back to consciousness. She must have fallen asleep after all, and now a noise had woken her.

  She strained to hear the sound again, but the house was utterly quiet. And yet she felt a disconcerting sense of commotion, of some wild activity going on somewhere not far away.

  There! The noise again. Goodness, it was tapping—someone just outside her room. A faint sheen of candlelight gleamed through the crack beneath the door.

  And then there was a voice. “Lady Grantleigh?”

  Whose voice? A woman’s, but not Peggy’s, and not either of Christopher’s aunts.

  Julia rubbed at her eyes. There was something important she was supposed to remember.

  “Please, Lady Grantleigh,” said the voice again, more urgently—and that snapped Julia to full alertness. Of course—the visitors who’d arrived. It was Abigail Brayles at her door.

  “What is it?” she called.

  “It’s little Kate,” said Miss Brayles, sounding quite relieved to get an answer. “She’s not well.”

  Stumbling slightly, Julia felt for her robe on her bedside chair and nudged her feet into her slippers. For just a moment, she considered not unlocking her door at all, but the woman sounded so worried. And the child’s lungs had been rasping audibly before they went to bed.

  So she unwedged the heavy chair, undid the lock, opened the door. Miss Brayles stood there in her nightdress, holding a candle, looking terribly pale. “Our walk through the damp night air was too much for her,” the woman said, her voice full of alarm. “Her breathing’s gone all rough again, and I fear fever will set in soon if we don’t send for a physician.”

  “Oh,” said Julia. “Let me wake Lady Lambert and—”

  “I tried! She wouldn’t answer. She must be deep asleep.” The candlestick trembled in Miss Brayles’ hands, and her eyes looked a little wild. “If you could send a footman for the doctor? Please—Doctor Mills, does he still have his practice? He was always so good and kind when Caroline was ill.”

  It seemed beyond churlish to resist her pleas. “Dr. Mills,” Julia said, fastening the tie of her robe. “Yes, he’s not far from here. All right. Of course.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Miss Brayles seized her hand and hurried with her down the stairs, the candlelight streaking the walls with bands of light and shadow. “George is walking with Kate downstairs, to keep her upright, trying to clear her lungs.”

  Indeed, once they reached the foyer, Julia could hear the faint sounds of someone moving nearby.

  “Over here,” said Miss Brayles, tugging her along.

  Julia thought perhaps they were heading to the parlor, but Miss Brayles pulled her further down the hallway. Still muddled with sleep, her brain didn’t fully register until the last moment that Miss Brayles was leading her into Christopher’s study.

  Miss Brayles pushed the door open.

  Oddly, every oil lamp in the room was brightly lit.

  And George Brayles was standing there. Leaning forward over Christopher’s desk. His hands gripping a sheaf of papers.

  And there was no sign of the child.

  Julia’s heart lurched. Oh, no. No.

  Cold fear washed through her belly. She glanced around—the desk drawers and the cabinets were open. The shelves had been ransacked, with all the steward’s account-books and ledgers strewn across the desk and floor.

  Dear God. He’d been searching through what he thought were Christopher’s things.

  She’d been a fool. Such an utter fool.

  Everything Holsworth had warned her about must be true.

  She glanced towards Abigail Brayles, hoping to see her equally shocked by the scene, but the woman calmly pulled the study door shut, and leaned her body back against it, blocking Julia’s retreat.

  Brayles straightened now and looked at Julia, his eyes anxious, but not with the tender anxiety of a father with a sick child. “You will tell me please, Lady Grantleigh,” he said gruffly, “where those ledgers are. The ledgers Holsworth stole and brought back from India.”

  Damn it all. Why on earth had she sent Holsworth away? Why in God’s name hadn’t she believed him?

  Despite her trembling limbs, she squared her shoulders as best she could. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She forced herself to keep her eyes on the man, not give him any sign her attention was on the study door. Was she strong enough to push Abigail Brayles out of her path before George could come from behind the desk to grab her? If she could just get the heavy door open again, she could scream loud enough that even a dozing footman might hear her. Otherwise, the study walls were too thick for her voice to be heard.

  “Oh, spare me!” sneered Brayles. “Your husband was the sort of man who couldn’t keep his business from his wife. You do know what I’m talking about. When we spoke earlier tonight, it was perfectly clear you knew.”

  He lifted the flap of his coat—revealing a leather strap around his chest, with two pistols holstered. He drew one out, undid the safety latch, and pointed it at her.

  “Do not call out for anyone, my lady,” he said. “If you are quiet, and give me what I want, I give you my word as a gentleman that my family will leave here immediately and not trouble you again.”

  “A gentleman?” she said, pleased that her voice did not waver. “Not according to Major Holsworth.”

  “Holsworth?” Brayles’ tone was ugly. “So your husband did share the major’s accusations with you. But what can a man like that understand of a man like me, or what I’ve faced?” He strode forward, the pistol’s engraved barrel aimed straight at her chest. “The humiliation of being sent to India, without enough money in my pocket, with my child ill. If Holsworth were a gentleman, he’d have come to my aid. He’d have spoken to me, and only me, about what he learned, instead of spreading my shame to anyone who’d listen. A true gentleman does not expose another gentleman’s flaws and peccadillos.”

  Peccadillos? Was that how Brayles viewed what he had done? Betrayal of king and country? Aiding a foreign power in time of war?

  She tried to calm her thundering heart, tried to think. What options did she hav
e against him now? No weapons lay within reach, and it would hardly help to throw a book at him.

  Would he actually shoot her if she tried to run? Did it fall within his definition of a true gentleman to murder a lady while he was a guest in her home?

  Considering his attitude towards treason, she could only guess it did.

  Just one reasonable thought occurred to her—if she could frighten him sufficiently, make him believe he was in danger here, he might flee instead of hurting her. No doubt he was a coward at heart.

  She raised her chin and prepared to lie. “He’s here at Grantleigh, you know. Holsworth. Watching for you.”

  Brayles blinked in obvious surprise. “Holsworth? Holsworth is in India.”

  “No,” she said. “He arrived with Lady Eleanor last night. It wasn’t my husband who told me about the ledgers. Holsworth told me. He was quite sure you’d be coming here. And I know he’s well prepared to deal with you.”

  Brayles stared at her long and hard, and she could almost see the calculations taking place behind his eyes. “You’re bluffing,” he said at last. “If Holsworth were here, he’d have shown himself by now.”

  Miss Brayles nodded, too. “She’s lying, George,” she said. “I can see it on her face.”

  Julia shut her eyes in frustration, and the wish that Holsworth actually was nearby hit her with a stabbing pain.

  But she herself had sent Holsworth away.

  What choice was left? Brayles had that second pistol, clearly primed and ready, so he was prepared for considerable violence. How many might die if she did manage to call for help? Her mind flashed on the faces of the Grantleigh footmen, nearly all of whom had grown up in the village or on surrounding farms, and she couldn’t bear to think of any of them taking a bullet because of her mistakes. She had her duty as the lady of the manor, and it was to protect her household.

  She would have to find some way out of this herself.