“Alban had his ways,” Rand said darkly. “So then what happened?”
Bennett’s swallow was audible from across the room. “I dived off my horse to knock the gun from his grasp, and it went off. Then he drew his sword, and I panicked. Alban was known for his swordsmanship, and he wasn’t looking for a duel of honor—he’d made it clear he wanted me dead. I swiped a stout branch off the ground and bashed him over the head. He went down like a sack of flour.”
Rand still paced. “And he was dead.”
“Dead as a doornail, I’m afraid. I didn’t mean to kill him—I could have shot him if I’d wanted that. I was hunting and had a musket, after all. But I wasn’t sorry. He didn’t deserve Margery—he treated her abominably.” Despite the strength of his words, Lord Armstrong’s eyes skittered away guiltily.
Apparently he was sorry…about something, anyway.
“Don’t you see?” Margery straightened and went over to Rand, halting him with a hand on his arm. “It was self-defense. If he hadn’t done Alban in, Bennett would’ve been dead instead.”
“But how to prove it?” Lily asked.
“I don’t know.” Margery looked around the room pleadingly. “But you must help me find a way. You all must.”
Lily looked to Rand with a question in her eyes, and he nodded his agreement. Rose’s face was impassive, but Lily could tell from the way she was leaning forward in her chair that she, too, felt sympathy for the young couple.
“Of course we’ll help,” Rose said softly.
FORTY-NINE
“WE CANNOT HELP.” Rose fluffed her wine-colored satin skirts as Etta attached the matching stomacher. “I feel sorrow for Margery, but I fear there is no solution. The baron will hang.”
“There is a solution.” In fact, Lily was planning to set to work on it this very evening. Seated at the gilt dressing table, she chose her jewelry with extra care. If she was to have any hope of influencing the marquess, she’d have to exceed his exacting standards of female elegance. “Lord Hawkridge must be made to see reason.”
Rose snorted. “He’ll sooner see a goat rise up on its hind legs and perform ballet.”
“Now, now,” Etta said on a chuckle, “you mustn’t speak so of his lordship. He can be a hard man, but he is not entirely without reason.”
Holding a sapphire bob up to one ear, Lily examined herself critically in the mirror. “What reason could he possibly have for the way he treats Rand? For despising the good son and revering the bad?”
Etta laughed again. “You’ve bested me there, milady—his lordship is certainly guilty of misjudging his children. But then, we all have our blind spots.”
“Blind spots?” Lily’s gaze shifted from the mirror to Etta. “How could he miss the fact that Alban was a monster?”
The woman grimaced. “We all wish to think well of our children.”
“Except in Rand’s case,” Rose said dryly.
“Lord Newcliffe is a special case.” Etta straightened a final ribbon and stepped back. “Lovely. Are you pleased with your appearance, milady?”
But Rose was peering at the maid instead of her reflection. “Special how?”
Etta hesitated, scrubbing her clean hands in her tidy linen apron. “The new baron was a troublesome child at times,” she said finally.
“Perhaps as a boy he got up to a bit of mischief,” Lily protested, thinking of him pilfering his brother’s journal, “but that should hardly matter now. Now he’s a respectable, honest, hardworking young man—a man anyone should be proud to call Son.”
“And how,” Etta said quietly, “would his father have come to know that?”
Lily frowned, realizing Lord Hawkridge had spent just a handful of days with his son in the past decade. Because Rand had left. “But he wanted Rand to leave,” she said, mostly to herself.
The older woman shook her head. “It’s not that simple. I don’t mean to say his lordship treated Randal fairly…but he wasn’t entirely without reason.”
When she said no more, Rose pouted. “Vagueness is worse than silence. I suppose you refuse to tell us exactly what Rand did to upset the man?”
“Heavens, look at the time,” Etta said pointedly, though she carried no watch. “His lordship does not look kindly upon late supper guests.”
Lily hastened to fasten her earbobs and dab herself with scent. She would have to do.
Walking down the corridor, Rose cast Lily an appraising glance. “You look especially pretty.”
“Thank you,” Lily said in surprise.
“It was an observation, not a compliment. Do you imagine a fancy gown will impress the marquess into changing his mind about Lord Armstrong?”
Lily coughed, then cleared her throat. Her sister was far too shrewd for her comfort. “It cannot hurt, can it?”
Rose shook her head. “You’d do better to stay out of it, Lily. Lord Hawkridge would make a formidable enemy.”
Lily rolled her eyes, a gesture she’d learned from Rose. “Am I supposed to merely stand aside while he hangs an innocent man? Not even try to help?”
That earned her a snide look. “Lord Armstrong may not have murdered Rand’s brother in cold blood, but do you really think he’s innocent?”
“You don’t?”
Rose shrugged. “He’s hiding something. Couldn’t you tell?”
Lily tilted her head. “You cannot mean…you don’t think he deserves to hang?”
“Of course not!” Rose’s horror seemed genuine enough. “I’m just trying to show you that you’re out of your depth here at Hawkridge. You cannot be sure of Margery’s or the baron’s true motives, and yet you’re challenging a powerful nobleman on their behalf. And all this just to marry Rand? A man who, in the end, may very well cast you aside and marry Margery instead?”
Lily stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs. “Why should he do that? They love each other like brother and sister, not husband and wife. Even if—heaven forbid—Lord Armstrong cannot be saved, Margery would—”
“Then Margery will have lost the only man she loves like a husband. Will the distinction make much difference to her anymore?”
“I don’t know.” Lily couldn’t even contemplate what it would be like to have Rand ripped from
