His gaze turned upward and swept around the expansive hall, which had once been used for feasts and banquets. "This place is very different from Pembroke Palace," he said. "I can see why you felt secluded."
Just then she heard that familiar tapping upon the winding staircase. Her father's cane. She turned.
He took the final step and reached the ground floor. His white hair had not been combed, his clothing was shabby and wrinkled, as if he had not donned a fresh shirt in days. How old he appeared, as he hobbled across the hall toward her.
Suddenly she was overcome by despair, and walked straight across the room into his arms. "Father, I am so sorry."
But what did she have to be sorry for? She had only been trying to save herself from a life of misery.
And what of the accusations? She could not bear to think of it being true.
"No, my dear," he replied, wrapping his frail arms around her. "I am sorry. I have been weak. I failed you."
She pulled back to look into his eyes. She wanted more than anything to understand what he meant. Was he implying he had committed a terrible sin? Or was it simply an apology for arranging a marriage she did not want?
She turned around and looked at her husband, who was watching her.
"If you wish, Blake and I can see to the horses."
"No, Devon, please stay." She turned to her father again. "We have come a long way to speak to you."
His brow crinkled with apprehension. "I understand." He limped toward the fire.
"Lord Creighton," Devon said, "allow me to present my brother, Lord Blake Sinclair."
They shook hands.
Her father gestured to both men. "Look at you, brothers without a doubt. The same dark features and self-assured demeanor."
Rebecca was quick to interrupt. "Father," she said, "we must speak to you about Mr. Rushton. He came to Pembroke Village, and he is not prepared to give up his intentions to have me as his wife."
The flames from the fire reflected in her father's eyes as he glanced uneasily at each of them. "You spoke to him?"
"I did," she replied. "He has made some grave accusations."
He paused, then spoke harshly. "What has he told you?"
Rebecca could not bring herself to say it. She was thankful when Devon answered for her. "He has threatened to expose you as a murderer, sir."
Her father backed away from them and sank into a chair. He cupped his forehead in a hand. His fingers were trembling. "Lord help me."
She went to him and knelt, resting her hands on his thin knees. "Is it true, Father? Tell me it is not."
At last he dropped his hand, and she could see his face. "Did he try to use this to force you to leave your husband?"
She nodded. "He expected I would obey him to protect you. But you must tell me, Father, is there anything to protect? I cannot accept what he says as true. Tell me he is lying."
She stared into her father's eyes, searching for the truth.
"Of course it is a lie," he told her. "You know I am not that kind of man."
For the longest time, she sat and stared at him. She wanted to believe it, truly she did, but something inside her was not yet satisfied. She thought of the note about the bracelet.
"Mr. Rushton says you gave a bracelet to a woman named Serena Fullarton. In fact, he has a letter that she allegedly wrote, and he claims that she is your victim, and is buried here on the estate."
His hands were shaking as he looked up at Devon and Blake. "I do not know that woman, nor do I know how she obtained my stationery. Perhaps Rushton stole it in order to frame me, so that he could have you."
"But did you know about the letter?"
He hesitated. "No, I swear it."
None of this was making sense to her. She wanted to shake her father. She was having a hard time believing any of what he was saying. "If you are innocent, why did you give in to him? Why did you not stand up to him and defend your honor and protect my happiness? Why did you not refuse his demands? Or send for the police?"
There was pleading in his tone. "I have not been well in recent years, Rebecca. You know that. I am not young and strong like your husband. I did not have any fight left in me." Tears pooled in his eyes, and he covered his face with a hand. "I am a coward, afraid of everything, even leaving this house."
"Do not say that, Father."
She could hear the shame and humiliation in his voice.
"You have been so good to me," he said. "So devoted. I should have fought harder to keep you here with me."
"But I could not remain here forever," she said. "I am a woman now. I needed to live my own life."
She felt a hand on her shoulder-her husband's hand, squeezing gently. "It is almost midnight," he said. "We must go."
"Where?" her father asked, taking hold of her wrist as she tried to stand. "What are you going to do?"
"Rushton expects your daughter at his door tonight," Devon explained, "and he has threatened to expose you as a killer if she does not obey. I mean to confront him, sir, and inform him that she will never be his. She is my wife now. This blackmail must stop."
Her father stared for a long time at Devon, blinking up at him, then at last he spoke. "This is the second time you have offered your assistance, Hawthorne, when I have found myself in a difficult predicament. I am grateful."
"It is more than a difficult predicament, Father," Rebecca said. "The man has accused you of murder."
Her father's Adam's apple bobbed. "He is a villain. He has always been so, you know it yourself. He is obsessed with you and will do anything to have you. I have not been strong enough to oppose him, but it is clear your husband is very different from me." He stood and limped to Devon and grabbed hold of his wrist. "I have had enough of this pain and turmoil. Do whatever you must to protect my daughter. She deserves happiness, and Rushton will destroy any hope of that. Please, do what you must…"
Rebecca recognized a look of comprehension in her husband's eyes as he took hold of her arm and led her toward the door. She, too, understood her father's message.
He wanted Rushton dead.
Chapter 24
The Pembroke coach pulled up in front of Mr. Rushton's country house shortly before midnight. It was a large home of Dutch design, flanked by two pavilions, which gave it balance and breadth.
Though the rain had stopped, a thick, heavy fog blanketed the land and put a damp chill in the air. Devon stepped out of the coach, offered his hand to Rebecca, and walked with her to the front entrance. Blake followed a few steps behind, carrying a pistol.
Before Devon knocked on the door, he looked into his wife's face and saw her distress, for she did not know whether her father was lying or telling the truth. Quite frankly, neither did he.
Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. "We shall get to the bottom of this. You have my word."
She only nodded.
Devon rapped the heavy brass knocker. Blake stepped to the side and pressed his back against the wall, remaining out of sight.
The door opened, and Devon faced a well-dressed gentleman who was clearly not a servant. He wore a dark jacket and looked to be in his mid-forties with strong facial features, a long, straight, patrician nose, and golden brown hair. He was fit and slender. There was confidence in his smile. It was Rushton, without a doubt.
His smug smile disappeared, however, the instant he met Devon's gaze.
"I thought you were going to leave him," he said to Rebecca, his blatant arrogance causing Devon to squeeze his hand into a tight fist. "Was he not willing to let you go?"
During the brief coach ride from Creighton Manor, they had discussed exactly what needed to be said, but suddenly Devon was hard-pressed to hold to the plan, when what he really wanted to do was walk in, grab the slimy worm by the throat, and toss him out a window.