Jennings in January of 1813.”
Helen Trevennen folded her hands in her lap with the grace of a trained performer. “It’s true I knew a Lieutenant Jennings once, a long time ago. I was—I was very fond of him. He was killed in the Peninsula.”
“And shortly before he died he wrote you a letter that you received after his death.”
She lowered her gaze to her hands. “Yes.”
“And enclosed in the letter was a ring. Come now, Mrs. Constable, your friend Violet Goddard saw it.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and compelling. “Mr. Fraser, I assure you—”
“We will pay whatever you ask for it.”
“Believe me, Mr. Fraser, when it comes to William Jennings it is not a question of money.”
“I understand the ring must have great sentimental value.”
Her hands clenched. “Mr. Fraser,
“Miss Goddard saw—”
“I’ll show you what Violet saw.” She sprang to her feet and ran from the room.
Edgar groaned. “She sounds as though she’s telling the truth.”
Charles stood and took a turn about the room. “She’s a very good actress.”
“Because she worked at the Drury Lane?”
“Because she sounds as though she’s telling the truth.”
“We’re threatening everything she has,” Melanie said. “She’ll work hard to defend it.”
Charles looked at her, ignoring the echoes of their own life that reverberated through the room. “Then her defenses have to be broken.”
Helen Trevennen hurried back into the room, her color high and her breathing rapid, as though she had been running. “This is what Will—Lieutenant Jennings—sent to me with his final letter.” She extended her hand. In her palm lay a garnet brooch set in gold of a Spanish design. “Not very valuable, I believe, but I treasure it.”
Gold with a red stone. It fit Violet Goddard’s description. Charles could feel Melanie’s certainty waver, as did his own. “Mrs. Constable, you don’t—you can’t—realize how important this is,” he said. He told the story of Colin’s kidnapping in the brisk outlines he now had memorized.
“Dear heaven.” Helen Trevennen put her hand to the cross at her throat.
“You have children of your own,” Melanie said.
“Yes.” She picked up the yarn-haired doll that lay beside her on the settee. “Jane will be three in March and Benjamin’s just turned one.”
Melanie leaned forward, in that attitude that could win confidences from anyone. “Mrs. Constable, as a mother—”
Helen Trevennen looked into her eyes. “I wish I could help you, Mrs. Fraser. I can’t.” She smoothed the doll’s yarn hair. “I’ve never seen this ring. If Will had it, he said nothing about it.”
“What was in the letter?” Charles asked.
The knots of gold ribbon on her sleeves snapped as she drew herself up. “Mr. Fraser. It was a letter from my—from the man I loved. It was not meant to be read by anyone else. Nor did it contain anything that others could find of interest. Nothing about a ring or a Marques de Carevalo or even about Spain.”
“Sergeant Baxter said it was a long letter.”
A faint smile drifted through her eyes. “Will could be very ardent.”
“Do you still have the letter?”
“No, I—” She glanced at her hands, then looked back at him. “I’m embarrassed to say so, but I burned it before my marriage. I did not want to risk my husband finding it. My husband is the best of men, Mr. Fraser, but I don’t think he’d understand about Will.”
Charles leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Violet Goddard and Jemmy Moore said you were frightened when you left London seven years ago. Why?”
She drew a breath. He thought she might be sorting through her story, but he couldn’t be sure. “I’m not proud of my actions,” she said. “I was going to begin a new life. It is difficult to escape one’s past—particularly so for a woman. I knew that the only way to do so was to cut myself off from…from my former friends and associates. I thought saying I was afraid was the best way to assure this.”
“Where did you get the money to begin this new life in Brighton?” Charles asked.
“Will sent it in his letter. He said he’d recently come into a windfall and he wanted to share it with me. He didn’t explain further.”
Charles folded his arms across his chest and watched her for a long moment. “It’s a good story, Mrs. Constable. Now please tell us the truth.”
Her eyes widened with a perfect look of wounded outrage. She was almost as good an actress as Melanie. “I have told you the truth, Mr. Fraser.”
“I think not, though you’ve told the lies brilliantly.”
“Mr. Fraser—”
“Mrs. Constable, I said we had no intention of telling your husband what we’ve learned of your past. That is true in and of itself. But if you persist in these denials, I fear we shall have no choice but to lay the whole matter before him.”
“That is blackmail, Mr. Fraser.”
“Call it what you will. The ring, Mrs. Constable?”
“Mr. Fraser.” In the light from the branch of candles beside the settee, her eyes were luminous with tears. “If I had this ring it would take no threats to make me give it to you. I would do so happily for the sake of your child.” She stood in one swift, fluid motion, hesitated, then moved about the room, adjusting the shade of a lamp, realigning the score on the piano. Melanie had done much the same in the library last night. Laying claim to the home she feared losing?
“It goes without saying that you could do great—I fear irreparable—harm to my marriage.” Helen Trevennen stared at a framed silhouette on the wall with a faint, wistful smile. “I’m afraid my husband’s view of me is sadly idealized. I perhaps deserve that he should know the truth, but he does not deserve the pain it would cause him.”
“There is a simple way to spare him such pain,” Charles said.
Helen Trevennen turned to face him, with the tragic dignity of Desdemona refuting Othello’s accusations of infidelity. “All I can do is beg you not to speak to him of the past, for it will avail you nothing. I do not have the ring.”
Her eyes held a compelling plea, yet thanks to his wife, Charles knew something about resisting the pull of a pair of beautiful eyes. He stared at her for a long moment. He did not glance at Melanie, but he felt her making the same calculations he made himself. “You’re a parent, Mrs. Constable. If you can understand my fear for my son, you must believe I will use this.” He reached inside his coat and drew out a pistol. “The ring.”
Helen Trevennen went very still. Her gaze fastened on the barrel of the gun. Fear radiated off her like waves of heat.
Charles pulled back the hammer. He heard Edgar gasp, felt Melanie go tense.
Helen Trevennen lifted her gaze to his face. The flutter of the lace at her throat betrayed her trembling. “Mr. Fraser, I cannot help you. I don’t have it.”
Charles held the gun steady and measured the look in her eyes. The metal was cold and heavy in his hand. It would be so easy to pull the trigger and give vent to the scream of frustration that had been building inside him for almost forty-eight hours. So easy, so deadly, and so completely useless. If he shot, even a warning shot, the servants would come running into the room. Helen Trevennen, no doubt, would continue to deny she had the ring. And just possibly, she was telling the truth.
He lowered the pistol and got to his feet. Helen Trevennen let out a rough, gasping sigh.
Charles held out his hand to Melanie. “You have my card, Mrs. Constable. If by any chance you discover you are mistaken and have the ring after all, send word to us at once. You can have whatever you ask for it. Otherwise, there seems to be nothing more to be said.”
