Blackmail and the Bride (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 5) Page 17

  He’d looked over the casualty list, relieved that his friend Finn’s name was not there. But it was possible that the officers’ list was a separate one…he couldn’t know whether or not Finn had survived. He could only pray.

  And then Cressida had entered his life, with her assorted troubles, which matched his own in seriousness if not in type. Which led to their unorthodox maritime wedding.

  This was one of those moments when he looked back and wondered how the hell it had all happened. And yet now, lying there in his own bed, in a house that became his more every day…would he have changed anything? The answer was a resounding no.

  Being the third son of a Baron meant next to nothing in Society. He wasn’t possessed of a handsome income; in fact, there was no money, other than that from Aunt Venetia. So he was not one of those young gentlemen fawned upon or courted or sought after by eager young ladies. He’d realized exactly what he was and where he stood within days of arriving in town.

  So this…this home, this property and above all this woman…he never expected to be so blessed. He’d never had many of his own things as a child. Most of his toys had been shared with Kitty, his books had been shared with everyone and his clothes came down from Edmund to Simon to him. His room was small, and since there wasn’t any room for another bed, at least he hadn’t had to share that, but still…

  It was indeed extraordinary that he now had a wife, a home and an estate, small though it might be. He also had responsibilities, and that notion, most of all, was exciting. Now he could find out exactly what he was capable of. He knew he could eventually run the estate. He wasn’t an idiot by any means, and he wasn’t averse to learning the ropes. He knew he could set the building to rights because he wasn’t afraid to ask those who knew what it needed.

  And he hoped…prayed…he could be a good husband to Cressida. That challenge he would have to learn by doing, since his father had not provided a good example. In fact, he’d not provided any example whatsoever.

  Thinking of Cressida had him turning onto his side, in the vain hope that she might have materialized next to him. But sadly there was only a cool pillow. And—on her bedside table—those diaries.

  Leaning over, he picked up the top one. The Harewoods might be leaving and he didn’t want to run into them, so he settled back against the pillows and began to read.

  An hour later, he closed the little book and stared out the window. This was interesting reading indeed.

  It was time to find his wife. She needed to know what he’d learned.

  He hurried through his morning preparations and although eager to see Cressida, he still peered cautiously around his door before entering the corridor.

  It was, thankfully, silent and bare of Harewoods.

  Thanking his lucky stars, Richard took the back stairs down to the hall, just in case, but all remained quiet and a quick glance toward the stables showed a decided absence of carriages.

  They’d gone.

  He walked into the small parlor, to find his wife finishing her breakfast. She saw him and glanced at the clock. “You slept well, I take it.”

  He brushed her comment aside and crossed the room to her side, looking down at her.

  She looked back up at him, her expression puzzled.

  He reached down, grasped her chin and leaned over to kiss her. Thoroughly and unhurried. He pulled away, smiled, and did it all over again.

  “Ahem, Mister.” Worsnop’s voice broke into his moment of delight. “Yer didn’t oughta be doin’ that ‘ere.”

  Richard chuckled as he let go of Cressida’s chin and saw the warmth in her eyes. “I can do that anywhere I want, Worsnop. This is my wife.” He glanced down at her again. “Anywhere and anytime I want.”

  “Any time we want, husband,” she flashed back.

  “Er, yes. Of course.”

  Her eyes fell to the books. “Oh, the diaries. Yes. Can we read them this morning?”

  “Are we alone?” He looked around catching Worsnop’s eye.

  “Yer alone. But fer me. Them others took theirselves off right early, around cock crow. Good riddance, I says.” He wrinkled his nose. “Stink of the midden, that lot. Don’t wonder Lunnon smells.”

  Richard was about to ask what that meant, but then realized Cressida was tugging at the books. So he left that quizzical comment for another day. “I’ll pour my own tea, Worsnop, thank you. You have your breakfast. I’m not sure what I’ll be doing today, but please tell Mrs. Parsnip there will not be guests for dinner.”

  “She’ll be damn glad to ‘ear that, Mister.” He glanced at Cressida. “Yer pardon, Missus.”

  As the older man left, Richard sat down next to Cressida, poured himself tea and then put the little books next to her. “I had chance to read the first one this morning.” He stared pointedly at her. “Since I awoke alone.”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but he forestalled her. “Cressy, oh Cressy…I’m so sorry…” he whispered. Then reached out, pulled her near and kissed her all over again.

  *~~*~~*

  For a few moments she allowed herself to drown in the wonder of that kiss. Unexpected, gentle, and altogether mind-numbing.

  But then she eased back. “What was that for?” She couldn’t help smiling.

  “Because.” He grinned. “Because I couldn’t find the words to tell you how much I admired your forbearance last night with that damned witch, Delphine.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, surprised. “I didn’t…I wasn’t…”

  “Hush.” He held up his hand. “I was disappointed you weren’t there this morning, but then I tried to put myself in your shoes. If someone had said to me what she said to you, I’d have been knocked off balance as well.”

  “It hurt,” admitted Cressida. “I cannot deny it.”

  “Yet you didn’t show it. You beat her, Cressy, at her own game. She is the sort of person who enjoys causing pain. Creating drama where there is none, and usually at others’ expense.”

  “I guessed as much.” She looked at her teacup. “Richard, can you imagine what it would have been like if we’d stayed in London? Where there are so many more like her? I would have been ostracized everywhere. And you? It would have done irreparable harm.” She bit her lip. “It still may…”

  “It won’t.” Richard’s words rattled the teacups. “By the time we go to London, if we ever decided to do so, plenty more scandals will have attracted attention. So many that your mother’s will have been long forgotten.”

  “I’ve really been rather a lot of trouble for you, haven’t I?”

  He shook his head. “Cressy, look around you. Branscombe Magna. The house. The estate. You and Zizi. My life is filled with more than I’d ever imagined I would have. If that’s trouble, then give me more.”

  She swallowed, feeling the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. “That’s a lovely thing to say. Thank you.”

  “Right.” He pushed his teacup aside. “Why don’t we take a look at these diaries.”

  “Perhaps the library would be better.” She gathered her skirts and stood. “I know I’m going to want a paper and pen, especially if we get into dates…”

  “Good idea.” He stood and grabbed the last piece of toast, munching on the way.

  Arriving in the library, they settled themselves the two window chairs, and Richard reviewed the first diary.

  “This one—you read some of it—starts when Ann was introduced to Roger. She seemed quite enamored right off the bat, saying things about how her heart beat faster when he walked into the room and so on. Girlish things, and an awful lot of them.”

  Cressida chuckled. “Yes, that was fun wasn’t it? Apparently girls don’t change very much over the years. The right man can still make our hearts flutter.”

  Richard looked up, opened his mouth, then thought better of it. “Be that as it may, she goes on to note the events they attended, the people they met, and the other young women who were apparently envious of her escort. Again, nothing terr
ibly out of the way. Until the last entries.”

  “Oh?”

  “They visited a country home, somewhere along the coast here, I would guess. And they met the Hatfields.”

  At that, Cressida sat up straight. “Really? The Hatfields?”

  “Yes.” He thumbed the pages. “Seamaid Hall. Home of the Hatfield family.”

  “Does she give any details?”

  “Only that the Hatfields were pleasant, and that they had one daughter, Joanna.” He looked at her. “A name we both know…”

  “Good Lord, Richard.” Cressida sat, stunned. “This is getting really interesting.”

  “Yes. That’s why I stopped there. I’d prefer we read the second diary together.” He stood and moved his chair beside hers. “Shall I go on, or do you want to read?”

  “Go ahead. It would seem you have better luck at reading Ann’s writing than I.” She waved her hand at the dairy.

  “She writes like I do. I have a dreadful hand. Always did. Now…where were we? Ah, yes.” He settled himself. “Ann is starting with a comment about Joanna’s hair. Oh.” He blinked. “It is apparently—and here’s exactly what she says—a vulgar shade better suited to cook’s copper stew pot.”

  Cressida sucked in a breath. “She was a redhead.”

  “So it would seem.” Richard scanned more of Ann’s words. “And oh my goodness, Ann is beginning to seriously dislike her…look…”

  Cressida leaned in and the two of them read Ann’s diary, learning how she had grown to hate Joanna, to accuse her of deliberately trying to seduce Roger, and finally becoming thankful once more when Joanna left the area to visit cousins in Cornwall.

  Then the entries become almost entirely about Roger; he had, by now, proposed marriage and both families were delighted. The Siddons and the Branscombes joined forces to prepare for a magnificent nuptial celebration, and so on.

  Richard flipped to the last page. “She’s not married at the end of this one.” He sighed. “I can go on with the girlish rhapsodies, but truthfully I’d rather get to more solid event information…”

  “Agreed,” grinned Cressida. “I can always catch up with those rhapsodies later.”

  The third diary began with the wedding, which they skimmed, noting that it had been all light and perfection, as was only to be expected.

  But some few weeks further on, Ann began to slip a little in her praise of Richard, and a sour note crept into her entries. “Roger was gone some two days hence,” she wrote. “And returned in a poor mood indeed, scarce bidding me a fair greeting. Methinks he awaits news of a growing babe, and as yet I have none to give. Mayhap if he bided at home and gave me more husbandly attention I might be able to give him an heir.”

  “Aha.” Cressida listened intently as Richard read the words.

  “Yes, aha indeed. There is more along those lines. Quite a few months’ worth, apparently.” He nodded, intent on the pages. “Oh…guess who has returned to Devon?”

  “Joanna.”

  He nodded. “Here’s what Ann had to say about that. ‘Miss Siddons is back. Why must everyone make a fuss? ’Tis nought to us. Even Roger has gone to welcome her, while I stay home, unwell and about to retire for several months.’”

  “She’s pregnant.” Cressida stated bluntly. “She should be thrilled.”

  “Yes, one would think so. But reading on, she is really unwell. And now here’s a gap of a month or so when she writes nothing.”

  Cressida frowned and put her hand on Richard’s arm. “Don’t tell me…she lost the babe?”

  Richard turned a couple more pages. Then he sighed. “Yes. She suffered a miscarriage. Looks like it was perhaps six or seven months along, although her dates aren’t always noted.”

  “How sad.”

  “Now this is odd.” Richard stared at a page. “Listen… ‘I am obeying my husband, as is my duty. I took a vow and I shall keep to it. The Branscombe line will continue with the new heir. Shall I love him? I know not. ’Twill be difficult since I loathe the babe’s mother, but know ’tis not his fault.’” He looked up. “What do you make of that?”

  Cressida knew instantly. “They adopted Joanna’s illegitimate child. And I’m positive the father was Roger Branscombe.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He shrugged. “Joanna Siddons is one of your distant ancestors. She bequeathed her son to the Branscombe line and her red hair to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Richard watched his wife’s face as she absorbed the fascinating history of her unknown ancestor. Having become more familiar with her expressions, he understood she was more curious than shocked.

  Then a frown crossed her face. “Does this mean that Gerrard Hatfield was related to my mother in some way that might put a very ugly face on my birth?”

  “I don’t know. But if there’s a Hatfield family bible anywhere, it should offer some information.”

  “What if he were Joanna’s son?” Worry filled her eyes.

  “It was a hundred years ago, Cressy. We know that Joanna had one son. Michael. Whether she had others…we’ll have to find out. We need to know more about the Hatfields, for sure.” He held up the diary. “Let’s finish this, and then work out where we need to look next for answers.”

  She nodded. “All right. That makes sense.”

  He turned a few more pages, running his fingers over the faded words. “This is in 1680, right?”

  “Or possibly 1681. We don’t have a month for the marriage, just a year.”

  “Well, I think this last one is either at the end of 1681 or sometime in 1682. It’s very hard to read on these pages. They are a bit more faded than some of the others.” He was silent for a minute or two, focused intently on the entries. “Oh good God.”

  “What?” Cressida leaned toward him. “What is it?”

  “I’ll read it. Tell me what you think.” He cleared his throat.

  “’Tis a wonderful day. The evil that has haunted me is finally gone from this earth, found guilty by her peers and hanged by her neck in Exeter. It may not be long before I greet Our Lord in Heaven, but I am comforted that the witch Joanna will not be there beside me. Her demonic seduction of my husband has finally been revealed to all, and my family vindicated. She will give the Devil good company in hell.”

  “Richard.” Cressida’s eyes were wide, her face pale. “That sounds as if Joanna was put to death for being a witch and that Ann was the one who denounced her?”

  “It appears that way,” he answered quietly. “Ann never liked Joanna and clearly Roger liked her a bit too much.”

  “But to denounce her as a witch, just because one’s husband had a child by her?”

  “I know. To us it seems outrageous, but remember how Ann was over the moon with Roger’s attentions? How she gushed over every little thing? Might that not have indicated a tendency toward an unbalanced obsession?”

  Cressida thought about it. “I suppose it is quite possible…”

  “If she was indeed that sort of person, yes. Accusing Joanna of witchcraft is not unlike what many over-sensitive women have done after her—on a lesser level I’ll grant you—but the inclinations were there. Take Caro Lamb…”

  Cressida’s mouth curved in distaste. The violent and public emotions displayed by Lady Lamb during her affair with Byron were well known. “I take your point.”

  “The last entry…no date, so we don’t know when this was written… ‘I have no more words. They have deserted me. I will go to God knowing my husband cares deeply for his son. And trust that God will know the truth of my heart, that I did my best to do the same.’”

  Neither Richard or Cressida spoke for a few minutes. He couldn’t know what she was thinking, but his thoughts ran along the lines of needing a lot more information on all this. Unfortunately, it was all too common for records to be lost, houses to burn down, and entire families’ histories disappear into ashes.

  He really hoped this was not the case for Roger Branscombe and Joanna Hatfield, since th
eir story was both passionate and sad, and she’d suffered a death that was undeserved, to say the least.

  Cressida was the first to speak. “Do you think that Joanna’s spirit is still here? And if so, why? Or are we seeing Ann’s wraith?”

  “Good questions, and I have no idea of the answers. We need more information.”

  She nodded. “Let’s start with the Worsnops. They know a lot about the history around Branscombe…”

  Having found both Worsnops conveniently in one place sharing a pot of tea, Richard laid out their situation. “We need to know more about Joanna Hatfield. She and her family lived at Seamaid Hall, which is around here somewhere, we think. And it was over a hundred years ago.”

  Mrs. Parsnip nodded. “Go on.”

  “We were wondering if either of those names rang a bell? Hatfield or Siddons?” Cressida’s question was posed in hopeful terms.

  Richard hoped the same, because the matter had become very personal for Cressy, and by default himself.

  “I remember ‘earin’ ‘bout a Siddons ‘ouse.” Worsnop scratched his head. “Can’t fer the life o’me think why, though.”

  Mrs. Parsnip nodded. “Me too. I reckon me mam mentioned ‘em now an’ agin. Oh…” She snapped her fingers. “Their ‘ouse. That Seamaid place. Burned to the ground, it did. That’s what she tol’ me.”

  “Yer right about that, love. Jogged me memory, yer did.” Worsnop looked at Richard and Cressida. “’Tis over on Ocean Point. Still a few bricks ‘round about if’n yer look ‘ard.”

  “But you don’t know anything else? Whether Joanna Hatfield had children or anything?”

  “Sorry, Missus. Bit a’fore our time.” Mrs. Parsnip shook her head.

  “Ah, but yer knows some’un who jes’ might know a thing or two? Old Thumbcock.” Worsnop turned to Richard. “Older’n dirt, ‘e is.” He chuckled.

  “Now that’s a good idea, Worsnop. Thank you.” Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Since my wife hasn’t met him yet, we’ll kill two birds with one stone.”