Page 98 of His Improper Lady

Grit crunched beneath their feet as they walked through the room. Desiree went to the other window and looked out. The view it offered of the ocean and rocky beach was just as gray and grim as that in front of the house. “This hardly seems an ideal love nest.”

“Presumably it looked more pleasant at the time.” Tom went to the fireplace and picked up the poker. “Look, there are still ashes in the fireplace. I mean, obviously most of it’s been blown about, but it’s...” His voice trailed off as he shoved the ashes around.

“What?” Desiree joined him in front of the fireplace. The house was sad and cold, and the urgency inside her bubbled up, ever stronger. “What did you find?”

“I don’t know. There are a couple of chunks of something. They’re scorched but not completely burned.” Tom dragged a blackened piece forward with the poker and bent to pick it up. He brushed away the ashes covering it. “It’s metal. Looks like a clasp, perhaps?”

“A clasp?” Desiree’s chest turned icy, and she had to force herself to breathe. “You mean, the sort that’s on a portmanteau? Or a valise?”

Tom lifted his eyes to her, question mingling with trepidation. “Yes. Very like that.” He stood up, holding out the object to her.

Desiree barely glanced at it, backing away from him. The alarm that had been growing in her all day was now clanging. Her words came in a whisper. “She was right. Mrs. McGee was right, wasn’t she? Alistair killed my mother.”

“We don’t know that,” Tom protested, pulling her close to him. “Here, now, you’re trembling. That could have been attached to anything.”

Desiree pulled back. “Such as? Someone just happened to burn something here twenty-eight years ago that looked remarkably like a clasp used on luggage?”

“You don’t know when it was burned. The place has been abandoned for years. Vagrants could have camped here anytime. Twenty-eight years is a very long time for ashes to remain.”

“You don’t need to sugarcoat things for me, Tom. I’d rather know the truth, no matter how terrible it is. This is why I’ve been feeling this sense of disaster! That’s why it’s so strong. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see. I just don’t want you to...”

“Be hurt?”

“Yes,” Tom admitted.

“I’m already hurt. I was hurt twenty-eight years ago when my mother was taken from me. I never got to know her. But at least now I know why. It fits, Tom—you have to agree it all fits. Why a woman who by all accounts loved her children left them without a word. Why a woman went away on a weekend trip with her lover and never returned. Why she didn’t take her most precious jewels and keepsakes. Why she left with only a single piece of luggage. There was no letter from Stella saying that she had fled to America, only Alistair’s note to his good chum Pax, a man who would of course believe him. My father murdered her.”

“How can you be certain of that?” He took her shoulders, staring intently into her eyes. “Is it your brain talking or your inner sense?”

Desiree opened her mouth to speak, then stopped abruptly. “I’m not sure.” She looked away, her hand going to her stomach. She didn’t feel satisfied. There was no sense that it was over. The urgency still pulsed in her, tugging her away.

“Desiree? What is it? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “I think there’s more. I—I need to go somewhere else.” Desiree started toward the door.

“Where?” Tom followed her, reaching out to pull the door open for her.

They froze, staring at the scene in front of them. Another carriage had pulled up beside theirs, an odd, low-seated vehicle. And a woman was striding from it toward them.

“Tabitha!”

“That’s Lady Moreland to you.” Tabitha stopped a few feet away from them. Her hair was in a neat bun beneath a small fashionable hat, and her gray suit with black trim was stylish. The only thing odd about her appearance was the wild light in her eyes. And the revolver she pointed at Desiree.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“LADY MORELAND.” Desiree wasn’t about to argue with a woman holding a gun.

“Lady Alistair Moreland.” Tabitha’s voice held a note of pride. “I am his wife! She was never anything but a whore to him. I was the one he married. I was the one who bore his heir, who carried his name.”

“Yes. You are.” Desiree curled her fingers into fists, but she kept her face and voice cool and calm. Tabitha’s inner image was so dark and incongruous with her outer self that it was jarring; Desiree could barely stand to look at her. What was wrong with this woman? What could possibly be in that will that was so important she would chase them down, waving a gun?

“Good afternoon, Lady Moreland,” Tom said politely from where he stood behind Desiree. His fingers curled around Desiree’s arm, and she knew he intended to pull her aside. His other hand was still holding the door. In a pleasant, conversational tone, he went on, “I see your carriage. Where is your driver?”

“I don’t need him. As if I can’t handle the reins myself! I am an excellent horsewoman and an excellent driver. My papa taught me. Just as he taught me to shoot.”

“You’re the one who was watching my house?” Desiree asked, frankly puzzled, but also understanding that Tom wanted to spin the conversation out, make the woman relax before he made his move. “Why?”