Dicing with the Dangerous Lord - By Margaret McPhee Page 0,94
wait, while outside the wind howled and the rain beat in a rhythmic incessant torrent.
Chapter Twenty
It was later than Linwood had anticipated by the time the meeting of the Order of the Wolf finished. He did not go for a drink with the others, but came straight home. He knew as soon as he opened the door of the drawing room that something was wrong.
It took a moment for him to see her sitting there in the darkness. The fire had almost burned itself out. The room was chilled and dark.
‘Venetia?’
He picked a candle from its holder and lit it from the glowing embers on the hearth, then used it to light the others in the candelabrum.
Taking it with him, he moved towards her. ‘I did not think you would still be up. The meeting went on longer than I expected.’
‘Did it?’ she said and there was a deadness in her tone that made his blood run cold.
‘What has happened?’ he asked, coming to stand before her.
‘Marianne came to see me today.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly.
‘She told me what Rotherham did to her.’
‘Then you understand why I could not tell you.’
‘I understand that.’
‘I am relieved to hear it.’
‘But not why you lied to me.’
‘I have never lied to you, Venetia.’
‘Have you not?’
‘No.’
‘What will you swear that on, Francis?’
‘Whatever you wish.’
‘My life? Or Rotherham’s, perhaps?’
‘What is this about, Venetia?’
Her eyes held his for a moment and then moved pointedly to the desk.
His scalp prickled as he followed the direction of her gaze. There, on the top of his desk, lay the journal he had taken from Rotherham’s study on the night of his murder. ‘I see.’
‘So do I. At last. Rotherham’s journal. Did it amuse you to make me believe you innocent? Were you laughing at my naivety? And your parents, too? And I am the one supposed to be trained in acting!’
‘It is not as you think. I can explain the presence of the journal.’
‘As you can explain the murder of Rotherham? Or are you going to keep on deceiving me with your clever game?’
His lips pressed firm. ‘The game between us was over a long time ago, Venetia. And even through it, I have never deceived you.’
‘No, perhaps not, if one wants to be pedantic about it. How very clever you have been—such careful choice of words, such cunning tactics.’
‘For once in my life I used nothing of cunning.’
‘No? Swearing an oath to me to speak the truth or nothing at all. Then staying silent rather than make a defence. I would call that cunning.’ She laughed, but it was a bitter sound. ‘No wonder you never could deny it, not even to me when we were alone. And I, fool that I was, thought it was because you were protecting someone.’ She gave an angry laugh again but this time he saw tears in her eyes. ‘And you were—just not in the way that I thought. You killed Rotherham to protect Marianne.’
‘Venetia—’
‘And do you know the worst thing of all, Francis?’ She faced him in defiance of the tears in her eyes. ‘Had you been honest with me, had I known that you killed him, I do not think it would have made any difference.’ The tears spilled to run down her cheeks. She swiped them away with angry fast movements. ‘You have made an utter fool of me.’
‘You are wrong, Venetia.’ He came to her, but when he went to take her in his arms she fought against him and tried to turn away. He stopped her with a gentle grip, forcing her to look at him, knowing that she had to hear the truth.
‘I did not kill Rotherham. I give you my oath on that.’
The words echoed loud in the silence. Outside the rain battered in great swaths against the window and the panes rattled and the curtains swayed in the onslaught of the wind, making the flames of the candles flicker wildly and casting his face in dangerous shadows.
She was breathing so hard and fast that every in-breath grazed her breasts against his chest.
‘You have his journal.’
‘I do. But I did not kill him.’
A heartbeat and then another and the agony in her eyes tore at him.
‘I can tell you of it, all of what happened that night, now that I am not bound by Marianne’s secret.’
She looked into his eyes a moment longer, then she gave a nod.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Linwood walked to stand by the window and stared out at the dark fury of