Beauty in Breeches

chapter Nine


Ever since Julius had noticed Beatrice was pregnant he had floundered in a sweet morass of unbelievable joy and hope that would not let him rest—hope that this child would give them an anchorage to settle down. It was so unbelievable. Some instinct warned him not to let her know he knew her secret—if she knew herself. If she did, he was waiting for her to tell him of her own accord.

It was on their wedding night when she had conceived—over four months, yet still she had not said a word. For the first time in his life he was completely bemused by what went on inside a woman’s head. Why hadn’t she told him? A woman must know when she was pregnant—surely? He had been waiting for two weeks, scarcely leaving her side—not that he wanted to—so he might be available when she finally revealed her condition, which couldn’t be long.

The matter came to a head when her horse was brought from Larkhill and she came into the drawing room in her riding habit, her face lit up with excitement. She intended taking Major for some exercise in the park, despite the fact that rain-filled clouds covered London and already heavy splashes could be heard against the drawing-room windows. Julius came alert instantly. He could imagine his wife’s idea of exercising her mount—more like a break-neck gallop clearing any obstacle that confronted her.

‘I don’t think you should,’ he said, putting his newspaper aside.

‘Why ever not?’ Beatrice said, pulling on her gloves. ‘Major will be feeling so frustrated after the journey. A good blow out will do him the world of good. We both need the exercise. Come with us if you like. I’d love it if you would.’

‘No, Beatrice, not today. Besides, it’s raining.’ He spoke softly, patiently, while squaring his broad shoulders and preparing to do battle, knowing his refusal to allow her to ride would more than likely send her back into the stubbornness, the mutinous obstinacy she had shown at the beginning of their relationship.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Julius. Since when did a little rain put you off?’ Picking up her crop, she walked to the door.

‘Beatrice,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I said I would prefer it if you didn’t ride today.’

Hearing a warning note in his voice, she turned and looked back at him, her dark scowl telling him not to start ordering her about—or trying to. ‘But I must ride. I can’t sit about all day, as you have had me do ever since I came back from Larkhill. I shall go out of my mind if I don’t get out of the house. You can’t deprive me of the pleasure I get from riding.’

‘I have no wish to, but what if your horse takes it into his head to bolt?’

‘He won’t—and if he did I can deal with it. I do know my horse, Julius. You of all people know that.’

‘Nevertheless I would prefer it if you did not ride him,’ he told her firmly, tempted to say that he didn’t want her gallivanting about Hyde Park taking risks. This was his child and, by God, he was going to see it born. ‘I’ve told the grooms they are not to saddle him. When he needs exercise they will do it.’

‘Goodness me, aren’t you the fierce one today,’ she remarked crossly. ‘I might as well tell you now that I will not take orders from you or a groom, and if necessary I shall saddle my horse myself.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, going to stand in front of her, trying to put some warmth into his voice so as not to antagonise her. ‘What if you were to take a tumble?’

‘I won’t.’

No, he thought, she wouldn’t. She was the best horsewoman he knew, but his judgement was tempered not with admiration, but with fear.

Perplexed by his refusal to let her ride and his strange mood, Beatrice frowned up at him. ‘Julius, what on earth is the matter with you? There’s nothing unusual in my riding out—and I promise to take one of the grooms with me if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘No, it isn’t that,’ he replied sharply. ‘You can hardly expect to get up on that horse and go galloping in the park when you are in a delicate condition. Have you not the sense to safeguard your child—our child?’

She stared up at him in disbelief, then laughed, thinking he was being ridiculous. ‘Forgive me, but I’m not sure I take your meaning. Child? What are you talking about?’

‘That I know you are pregnant, Beatrice.’

‘I am? How do you know?’

‘Your own body provided me with the announcement of my impending fatherhood.’

‘A baby? But—I can’t be. I mean—I feel so well. In fact, I’ve never felt better in my life. When you’re having a baby you’re… Oh dear! I think I may have put on a little weight but—a baby?’

Slowly shaking her head, feeling as if her legs were about to buckle under her, she sank into a chair, trying to get her head round what Julius had said. Could it be true and, if so, how could she possibly not have known? Her monthly fluxes had always been irregular—although now she came to think of it she’d seen nothing for—how long?—three months. Her breasts were tender, but she had thought that was just blooming womanhood. Her stomach was still taut, yet her clothes had seemed a little tight of late.

‘Dear me, if I am with child then—then I must be four months,’ she whispered. ‘It must have happened on our wedding night.’ She placed her hands to her scarlet cheeks. ‘I cannot believe I didn’t know.’ Her eyes flew to Julius, who was gazing down at her with all the love and tenderness he felt for her there in his eyes. ‘But I might not be. It’s not certain.’

‘We’ll get the doctor to confirm it,’ he murmured, squatting down beside her and taking her hand. ‘But I do think you are, my darling. You really didn’t know?’

Smiling while close to tears, she shook her head. ‘No—but you did. How stupid is that?’

Getting to his feet, Julius laughed softly, pulling her up and gathering her to him. ‘Not stupid, my love. Just a little—naïve, I think. But think about it—how wonderful it will be,’ he murmured into her sweet-scented hair, the mere thought warming his heart.

‘How long have you known?’ Beatrice asked, her cheek against his hard chest, still unable to believe it and yet at the same time feeling a thrill of anticipation race through her. Her heart gave a leap of excitement in her chest, for Julius was acknowledging it and, even more wonderful, was saying he did not mind.

‘Since the night you came back from Larkhill. I wanted to ask you, but I felt you might want to choose your own time to tell me. You would have told me, wouldn’t you—had you realised it yourself?’ He smiled wryly when she turned her face up to his in dreaming contemplation.

She returned his smile tremulously. ‘I could hardly not, could I?’

‘And you are not unhappy about it?’ he said, as he traced his finger along the elegant curve of her cheek.

‘Deliriously happy,’ she murmured, her eyes aglow with love. ‘And you were right to tell me not to ride. I would not wish to harm the baby.’

‘You won’t—if you ride at a gentle pace. I’ll accompany you tomorrow. Hopefully the sun will be shining by then.’

‘It already is,’ she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. ‘For us.’

‘I have something to give you.’ Disentangling her arms, he went to a table. Picking up a flat packet which looked as if it might contain papers, he brought it to her.

Beatrice took it, looking at it and then at him in bemusement. ‘What is it?’

‘My belated wedding present to you.’

Tentatively she opened it and pulled out some papers, yellow with age. She was hardly able to believe what she saw. ‘But—these look like the deeds for Larkhill. But I—I don’t understand.’

‘They are the deeds, Beatrice. I told you I had no intention of keeping the estate. I have made the property over to the person to whom it rightly belongs. You.’

When Beatrice realised what he had done, she was overwhelmed with gratitude and love. Reaching her arms around his powerful shoulders and burying her face in his neck, she murmured, ‘Thank you so much. I can’t find the words to tell you how much this means to me. I really don’t deserve you.’

The naked anguish in her voice brought a constriction to his throat. Threading his fingers through her hair, he framed her face between his hands and gazed at her. ‘I don’t deserve you, my love,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Dear God, I don’t.’



Some days later, Julius had business to attend to at his offices, so Beatrice was alone when an unexpected and unwelcome visitor arrived. It was mid-morning, too early in the day for visitors, so Beatrice was surprised to see her Aunt Moira. Beatrice felt a chill steal across her heart when her aunt breezed into the room. She gave no greeting, save a slight inclination of her head.

Beatrice received her with the utmost politeness. ‘Aunt Moira, this is an unexpected surprise. I hope you are well. I had no idea you were in London.’

‘Why should you?’ Lady Standish began in her authoritarian, yet ladylike way. Without being invited to do so she sat, stiff backed, her hand resting on her brass-knobbed walking cane. ‘This is not a social call, Beatrice. I am here out of necessity, not because I choose to be. You will understand the reason why I am here.’

Sitting stiffly opposite, Beatrice looked at her aunt with unaffected astonishment. ‘Forgive me, Aunt, but I don’t.’

‘I have come to fetch my daughter home. I assume this is where she is hiding out.’

Beatrice stared at her in disbelief. ‘Astrid? But—she is not here.’

‘No?’

It was clear her aunt did not believe her, but if Astrid was not at Standish House and she had not come to Beatrice, then where was she? ‘No, Aunt Moira, she is not. When did she leave home?’

‘Three days ago. She left the house to visit a neighbour for a musical afternoon and did not come back.’

‘Then—is it possible that she might have met with an accident?’

‘No. Enquiries were made. Some of her clothes are missing, which tells me she has run off.’

‘But—this is alarming. Where is George? Did she not confide in him?’

‘George has been in Brighton for the past two weeks. He is due back tomorrow. As yet I have not informed him that Astrid is missing.’

‘Then I think he should be told. But—why would you assume she has come here?’

‘Where else would she go?’ Lady Standish said in an angry tone. ‘Don’t pretend to be ignorant of it,’ she accused scathingly. ‘She is here, isn’t she? You are hiding her. I know it.’

‘Indeed you are mistaken, Aunt Moira,’ Beatrice answered. ‘When I left Standish House you forbade me to see Astrid and I swear I have not.’

‘Do not trifle with me, Beatrice,’ Lady Standish said. ‘You may have married a marquess, but you are still a nobody.’ Her eyes had taken on a wildness as she looked around at the luxurious green-and-gold room. ‘Just look at this place—look at you. Your scheming has paid off admirably.’

Beatrice bristled with indignation at the affront. ‘My father was a gentleman as well you know, Aunt Moira. I do not consider myself beneath Julius. In our marriage we are equal. Astrid is my cousin and I am worried about her.’

‘Astrid is not your concern. Untrustworthy, that’s what you are. You are together in this. I know you have been down to Larkhill. I am also aware that George visited you there. You are all in it together—scheming against me—all part of the same wicked conspiracy.’

‘There is no conspiracy.’

Lady Standish banged her cane with impatient outrage, her voice rising. ‘Do not contradict me. If you know anything at all, then I demand that you tell me. I am entitled to know where my daughter is.’

‘Clearly Astrid doesn’t think so, otherwise she would have told you. If you do not believe me when I say she is not here, then please feel free to search the house. May I remind you that this house also happens to be my home and should Astrid come here for whatever reason, I would not turn her away.’

Lady Standish looked as though she had been poleaxed. Both hands gripped her cane fiercely, the knuckles white, her eyes staring icily at her niece.

‘Perhaps if you had not insisted that she wed Lord Alden,’ Beatrice went on, ‘she would not have run away.’

‘But they are engaged. It is an excellent match and it is my wish that they wed.’

‘Clearly Astrid has an aversion to the match—as great an aversion as she had when you aspired that she marry Julius,’ Beatrice told her tightly, struggling to keep her anger under control. ‘Julius has spoken to Lord Alden on my behalf—since George told me what you intended I have been exceedingly worried about Astrid. Julius has explained to Lord Alden Astrid’s fondness for another man. From what Julius has told me, he is reconsidering the marriage.’

Lady Standish’s face was chalk white, and when she next spoke her voice shook with fury. ‘And you denied there was any conspiracy. Lord Chadwick had no business, no business at all, to interfere in a matter that does not concern him, and neither have you. How dare either of you disregard the arrangements I have made for my own daughter? This is too much.’

‘I did so because I happen to care for Astrid. I was deeply concerned when George told me you were forcing her to marry a man she does not care for. Where have you looked for her? Have you seen Squire Talbot? That is the obvious place. Is Henry at home? If he is absent and his father ignorant as to his whereabouts, then I would say that is a clear indication they have run away together.’

Her aunt’s body was visibly shaking with anger. ‘If that should prove to be the case, then believe me when I say that her ambition will never be gratified.’

‘Astrid’s ambition has always been to marry Henry.’

‘And I forbid it,’ she replied, her voice brittle. ‘Any alliance between Astrid and Henry Talbot will be seen as a disgrace. She will be censured and slighted by everyone connected to us. I will not have it. You do know her intentions, don’t you?’

‘No, Aunt, I do not, and if I did I would not tell you—not if it meant Astrid would suffer further heartache.’

‘Your defiance does you no credit. How dare you address me in this impertinent manner? You will pay dearly for this,’ she warned Beatrice with a fixed stare. ‘God help me, you will pay the price of what you have done to me. I will not be beaten.’ Struggling to maintain her composure, she stood up and crossed regally to the door, where she turned and looked back, her piercingly cold eyes regarding the beautiful young woman, whose eyes were filled with contentment. ‘So it’s true what everyone is saying,’ she sneered. ‘Your union with Lord Chadwick is working out against all the odds. I believe you have put on a little weight, Beatrice. Marriage clearly agrees with you.’

Beatrice lifted her head and met her stare for stare, reluctant to disclose her pregnancy to this cold woman. ‘Yes. Julius and I are very happy.’

‘And so you should be—after the trouble you caused securing for yourself a most advantageous marriage, you despicable, scheming girl. I know he sent someone to assess Larkhill for its value, which implies he might be going to sell it. It will serve you right if he calls your bluff. You should have thought he might do that when you propositioned him.’

‘Julius no longer owns Larkhill, Aunt Moira. He has made it over to me. So you see, I have achieved everything that I set out to do.’

‘Really? Your scheming is not worthy of congratulations. You think you know Julius Chadwick, don’t you? Perhaps you would not be so cocksure if you knew what the man you married is guilty of.’

Perplexed, Beatrice stared at her. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’

‘Ask your lying, two-faced husband,’ she uttered viciously. ‘He knows.’

‘Knows? Knows what, Aunt Moira?’

‘The truth. The truth about how your father died.’

Beatrice laughed a little nervously, then her heart began to beat with a new intensity, as though perceiving she was about to be told something that had been hidden from her. ‘What are you talking about?’

A slow smile stretched the older woman’s mouth, a smile that was pure evil. ‘Why, Beatrice, that your husband is a murderer. After he took Larkhill from your father and found the estate was mortgaged up to the hilt, he killed him.’ Her smile became one of satisfaction when her niece’s eyes widened in deepening incredulity. ‘There, you have it.’

Pain and disbelief streaked through Beatrice and a tiny hammer of panic began to pound in her head. ‘No. You are lying.’ She swallowed past a constriction in her throat. Something inside her had begun to die. ‘This is preposterous,’ she uttered shakily as terror began to hammer through her. Everything in her recoiled from believing Julius was capable of such evil. She knew in her bones he would not do something so wicked as to kill her father and then marry his daughter. None of it made sense. Julius couldn’t do that. He wasn’t a murderer—but then, how would she know?

‘I know you are bitter about what I did, when I challenged Julius, but to say…that—why would you say such a cruel thing?’

‘Because it’s true.’

Her entire body vibrating with horror, a scream of hysteria and denial rose in Beatrice’s throat. But then she recalled what her aunt had said before Julius had taken her from Standish House, that when she came to know the true nature of the man she aspired to marry, how he dealt with those who dared to cross him, she would learn to hate him. Was this what she had meant?

Facing her aunt, she felt each of her enraged words as if it was a blow to her head. ‘I do not believe you. Unable to live with what he’d done, my father killed himself.’

‘If that is what you want to believe, then do so—it’s what your husband wants you to believe—but do you know that for a fact?’

‘Yes,’ Beatrice answered implacably.

‘And I have reason to know,’ her aunt said with equal implacability, ‘that the man you married shot him.’

Beatrice was trying so hard to concentrate and not to give way to the terror of her aunt’s accusation that she dug her nails in her palms. ‘I cannot—will not—believe this. I will speak to Julius. He has to have a chance to deny this—this slander, to explain.’

‘He has no defence. Your mother knew—in one of her more lucid moments she told me when she came back from London, before she took to her bed and turned her back on the world.’

Beatrice’s blood already ran cold, but those words froze her heart. ‘My mother,’ she whispered. ‘She told you that?’

‘She was there. She saw Julius leaving the house. I promise you, Beatrice, I do not lie.’ Her smile was one of venomous satisfaction. ‘Think about it. How does it feel knowing you are married to the man who killed your own father?’

Lady Standish made to leave. Beatrice watched her, feeling quite ill to have confirmation of something she had sensed, but could never put her finger on—that when Julius had opened up to her he had not told her everything. His betrayal of her trust was like a stab in the heart.

A tremor of fury rippled through her, and with a sudden spurt of anger, she said, ‘And what does that make you, Aunt Moira? If, as you say, Julius is a murderer, how could you bear for him to marry Astrid? Was your greed for title, wealth and power so great you were prepared to sacrifice your own daughter on the altar of matrimony with a man who is capable of such evil? Where were your principles then?’

Lady Standish looked at her hard before raising her head and leaving the house.

Drowning in a black pool of despair, Beatrice couldn’t stand it. She understood everything her aunt had said, but she could not seem to move or feel. Was it really true that Julius had killed her father? If he had, how could she bear it? She was in pain, a constant searing pain that would not ease.

Mechanically she moved to the window, her arms wrapped round her waist in an agony of suffering, staring blankly at nothing. Feeling sick to the stomach, she tried to collect her wits. What on earth should she do? She didn’t think she could confront him just yet, to look into the harsh, handsome face she adored and hear that beautiful baritone voice. And yet could she stand the uncertainty of not knowing the truth? Could she go on living with him, spending days and nights together, pretending—living with the lie that would be their lives? Or could she bear the torment of living without him?

But as she considered the awfulness of his crime, she could not believe he had done this to her. Anger began to burn in her breast. If what she had been told was indeed true, how dare he make a mockery of her faith in him? Little wonder he had been so secretive. Little wonder he had wanted to conceal what he had done. She told herself to be fair and give him the benefit of the doubt, but deep down she knew there was some truth in it.

She had half a mind to seek him out at his place of business and demand that he tell her what he was playing at, but no doubt he would prevaricate and lie and continue treating her like the stupid idiot he took her for. If he had gone to great pains to conceal the mystery, then how could she think he would oblige her and tell her the truth now?

Resentment burned through her. They had an agreement to be open with each other, to be on equal terms, to tell each other the truth in all things, yet, despite his promise, her husband had persisted with his deception. How dare he conceal something as important as this from her? There was nothing equal in what he had done. She wanted answers and explanations and nothing would stop her from finding out exactly what had happened.



When Julius arrived home he went into his study to look over some papers. He was seated at his desk and just about to raise a pre-dinner brandy to his lips when the door was flung open and Beatrice came in like a hurricane.

‘Good Lord!’ he spluttered, dabbing his chin where the brandy had splashed. ‘What’s got into you? Beatrice? I’m always glad to see you, but could you not knock or…?’ His voice died away in bewilderment at the sight of the expression on her face and he placed the brandy glass on the desk.

Beatrice knew she must look odd. How could she help it when the words she wanted to speak—shout—at him were roiling at the back of her throat in an effort to get out, to tear him to pieces in her fury?

‘What have you done?’ she managed to say at last.

Julius’s face showed astonishment. ‘Done? What have I done? What can you mean? I have merely come home after concluding a successful day’s business and come in here and poured myself a drink, which, if I am allowed to, I shall relax and enjoy.’

‘Stop it, Julius. Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know what I mean.’

‘My love, believe me, I haven’t the slightest idea.’

‘Then you should.’

‘You do seem to be annoyed about something…’

‘Annoyed! Dear Lord, annoyed doesn’t half-describe what I’m feeling right now you—you blackguard, so will you stop prattling on and tell me the truth or I swear I shall scream,’ she uttered vehemently.

He was getting annoyed and it showed in the narrowing of his eyes and his scowl. Julius Chadwick was not accustomed to being called names of any sort or brought to task about anything; though he adored this woman and knew he always would, he was not about to let her throw her weight about like a street woman looking for a fight. He didn’t know what had awoken her temper, but something had and it seemed it was aimed at him.

‘It’s you who are prattling on, Beatrice,’ he said irritably, ‘and unless you tell me what all this is about I cannot answer your accusations over something I know nothing about. Is something wrong?’

‘Yes—yes, you might say that.’ Looking at him across the desk, she rested her hands on its surface and leaned in, her face on a level with his. ‘It’s about honesty, openness and trust. Stupidly I thought we had agreed to that in our marriage. I now find I have got it so very wrong. How can I trust you when you are up to your eyes in deception? This is not the marriage I agreed to when I came back from Larkhill.’

‘And why is that?’ His voice was icy.

‘My father, Julius.’ She met him look for look and her eyes were green ice. ‘I want the truth about the manner of his death, and who better to ask than the man who killed him.’

For a moment his face took on an expression of total incomprehension. He frowned as though he were doing his best to unravel her words, make sense of them, then his face hardened when realisation of what she was accusing him of hit him.

‘Who told you?’ He spoke mildly, but his amber eyes had sharpened. ‘Aunt Moira.’

‘And when did you see your aunt?’

‘A short time ago. She came to tell me that Astrid is missing and accused me of hiding her here. She also told me that not only did the man I married take Larkhill from my father, but that he also killed him. I have to ask you if there is any truth in this, Julius. And please don’t lie to me.’

‘Do you believe I am capable of such an act, Beatrice?’ He was watching her warily, having schooled himself well in the necessity for restraint in trying circumstances like the one he now faced.

‘Before my aunt came here I would have said no, never in a thousand years would I have believed you could do anything so—so vile. I don’t want to believe it, but it would appear that my mother bore witness to the whole sorry affair—and my mother was not a liar.’

‘I’m sure she wasn’t, but perhaps she mistook what she saw.’

‘Did she? Then perhaps you can explain what did happen that caused my father to lose his life. Either he shot himself or someone murdered him. Tell me the truth—if you can.’

Julius got up and walked round the desk to stand in front of her, where he stood looking down at her upturned face. Despite the fact that they were hurling daggers at him, her eyes were also full of hope that he would deny he’d had any part in her father’s demise. But he could not alleviate her doubts. Telling her about her father and the manner of his death would change the whole picture for her and he knew she would not be pleased with what she saw. It might make it worse. Maybe she would be better off not knowing the burden that lay so heavily on him, that there had been times when he thought he would be crushed by it. Unfortunately after her aunt’s visit, she now knew half of the story and would assume the rest and assume wrongly.

His face became tense and he looked away. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

‘Then tell me this—did my mother see you leave the house that night?’

Julius pushed his hand through his thick hair. His face was becoming dangerous and the gentleness, the concern, was replaced by grinding anger. His eyes darkened and he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Damn it, Beatrice. Can’t you leave it?’

‘No, Julius, I cannot. Don’t you understand? Ever since my father died I believed he had killed himself and that my mother—who found his body—was so shocked she retreated into herself because she couldn’t bear to live without him and the knowledge of what he had done. Now I know that she couldn’t bear to live with what she had witnessed—that he did not die by his own hand—and, being the gentle person she was, she was too afraid to speak out. I have a right to know what happened and I demand that you tell me. Were you there? Did she see you leave the house shortly after my father was killed?’

Julius looked at her hard, seeming to consider very carefully what to say next. At length he said tightly, ‘Yes, Beatrice, she did.’

Beatrice stared at him with eyes wide with horror. She had hoped and prayed he would deny it, that he would tell her there was no truth in what her aunt had told her and that what she had said was merely the rantings of a vicious old woman.

‘Then you have deceived me most cruelly,’ she uttered with a rage that was buried bone deep. She stepped back from him, as if she couldn’t bear to be near him. ‘How could you? When I married you I did so for no other reason than to gain access to Larkhill. The opportunity was too beautiful for me to resist. Suddenly you were more to me than the whole world, more than my own future, more than fortune. I would have been a fool to turn away from what you could offer me—and then I fell in love with you.’ She gave a hard, contemptuous little laugh which bordered on hysterical. ‘How stupid was that? I now find that the one man I have ever loved is worthless, utterly vicious and corrupt, without principle and without honour—a man who killed my own father. Do you think I could ever forget that? No, Julius, that memory will burn within me as long as I live.’

Julius’s hand went out to her. His face was strangely gentle and his amber eyes softened and were filled with compassion and warmth. They told of his own regret, not that her father was dead and that she truly believed he had killed him, but that it should give pain to her.

But Beatrice would have none of his concern and her cold, narrowed eyes told him so. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she spat.

He drew back his hand. ‘Your father did not shoot himself—I can tell you that—but there is more to it than that, Beatrice.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I—I cannot tell you,’ he said haltingly, finding it almost impossible to think of that night when his whole world had fallen apart, let alone speak of it. For a moment his mask slipped and Beatrice glimpsed fleetingly his inner pain, that he seemed deeply troubled and genuinely at a loss. But then the mask was back in place.

‘But if you want me to believe you, you must.’

‘I—cannot.’

‘Then if you cannot defend yourself, I am not interested in anything further you have to say.’ She turned from him and walked across the room to the door. ‘There is nothing more to be said. I want to be by myself—to think about what I’m going to do—away from here. Away from you.’

Julius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just exactly what is that supposed to mean?’

‘That I’d rather die than live in the same house as the man who killed my father. I am going to Larkhill—without you. I suppose it was your guilty conscience that prompted you to return it to me.’

‘No, it was because I wanted very much to give you back the equivalent of what was taken from you.’

‘Then I suppose I must be grateful for that at least.’

‘I am sorry, Beatrice, if I have hurt you. I regret that, but please believe me when I say that I desire only your peace and happiness. Do not forget that.’

She turned and looked at him. ‘It is not enough to say you’re sorry, to try to make amends, hoping to wipe out everything you have done,’ she said, stiff with pride and anger. ‘You should have thought of all this before you robbed my father to add to your own fortunes and then killed him. Now it is too late, do you hear, too late! How can I possibly remain married to you knowing this? I will keep Larkhill, but I would rather die a thousand deaths than take anything else from you! Can’t you understand that I hate you?’

She flung the last words in his face and had the bitter satisfaction of seeing him whiten. She triumphed in it, rejoiced in it, hoping for some sign of weakness which would put him absolutely at her mercy, but Julius Chadwick was a man of steel and did not know how to weaken. He merely shrugged and turned away from her.

‘I shall leave for Larkhill at first light. Please don’t try to stop me.’

‘I won’t.’ The fact that she had been so quick to believe the worst of him cut through his heart like a knife, leaving him with a dark sense of having been betrayed. He knew that by not telling her everything he was being unreasonable, but he just couldn’t help himself. Even if their marriage had been a travesty at the beginning, he had become comfortable with the idea of her being his wife and was reluctant to let her go.

‘Go if you feel you must—after this I am sure you can’t wait to leave me, but I will never divorce you,’ Julius continued dispassionately, immune to the wrathful expression on her beautiful face. ‘We will discuss the course of our future at a later date, but until then we have a child to consider and it will be raised by both a mother and a father.’

One look at his face convinced Beatrice that he was absolutely furious with her. Not only were his eyes glinting with icy shards, but the muscles in his cheeks were tensing and vibrating to a degree that she had never seen before.

She drew an infuriated breath. ‘As you said, we will discuss the course of our future another time. Goodbye, Julius.’ With that she swept out of the room, leaving him staring after her. She did not see the move he made towards her, or his look of angry pain and suffering, or hear the sigh of bitter defeat he uttered when she closed the door.

With a sense of burning betrayal and seething anger at her husband’s terrible crime, fighting back scalding tears of hurt, Beatrice hurried to her room—to pack, she decided, for if he wasn’t going to tell her the truth, she would not remain in the same house as a liar and a murderer.

In her wretched suffering she lay awake, hearing sounds of her husband moving about his room behind the closed connecting doors. It went on all night, which told her that he too was unable to sleep. She wanted to call out to him, wanted desperately to feel his arms around her, but she could not do it.



Dawn found her huddled in the comforting warm refuge of her cloak as the coach left the house. On the point of leaving, a letter addressed to her was delivered. It was from Astrid. Not until the coach had left London behind did Beatrice open it. It was as she had expected. Astrid had run away with Henry Talbot. They were in Scotland, at Gretna Green, where they had married. Astrid went on to tell her that they were deliriously happy. Things would be hard for a while since they had no money, but Henry’s parents had agreed that they could live with them for the time being.

Beatrice was happy for Astrid and sincerely hoped her cousin would find happiness wed to the man of her choice. She could well imagine how the news would be received by her aunt and had no doubt that she would turn her back on her daughter and cut her off without a penny.

It was raining hard and clouds the colour of pewter brushed the rooftops of London, the streets blacker than midnight. The roads were bad, as bad as Beatrice had expected when she’d embarked on this journey, and the rain showed no sign of relenting. But she was oblivious to the cold and the discomforts of the journey the closer she got to Larkhill.

She had closed her eyes and listened to the pounding hooves of the horses and the pounding of her heart. The familiar pain of betrayal was still present, but after hours of thoughtful contemplation in a more rational frame of mind she had the feeling that something was not quite right. Had she really married a monster, a murderer? In her mind she could see Julius smiling down at her, hear his voice filled with need. Could the man who had held her so tenderly and loved her with such unbridled passion really have killed her father? Was he really capable of doing that and then making that man’s daughter his wife?

Nothing rang true. In the confused and heated aftermath of her aunt’s disclosure, when her emotions had veered between hysterical panic and shaking irrationality, when she had questioned him and accused him so fiercely, his replies had been tentative, almost painful, and she began to suspect that there was something he had not told her—that even now he was deliberately keeping something from her. He had not denied murdering her father, but then, he hadn’t admitted it either. He had admitted being there at the time, but that didn’t mean he was responsible.

Recalling the moment when the mask had slipped from his face and he had seemed at a loss to know how to answer her questions, she asked herself why. She knew it was not out of coldness.

It was out of fear.

But what was he afraid of? Himself? It was strange how that one look she had seen on his face could cause everything to shift, to put everything into place. Julius wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t mistaken in that. She had been too ready to judge. Had she misjudged him? And if she had, would he ever be able to forgive her?



As the coach swung up the drive to Larkhill, she vividly remembered her confession to him of how she had fallen in love with him and how quickly he had silenced her. She had known he did not love her, but there were times when he made love to her that gave her reason to believe he was coming to that conclusion. She wished she hadn’t left him. She wished she was with him now so that she could tell him she was mistaken and apologise for being too ready to condemn him.

By the time the coach stopped in front of the house, so convinced was she of Julius’s innocence that she was tempted to tell the driver to turn and head back for London, but out of consideration for the tired horses and driver, she decided against it. She would spend one night at Larkhill and then she would take a leap of faith all the way back to her husband.