Beguiled Read online

  Grace’s glittering blue eyes flew open, wild with terror. “Branson, you cannot mean it! You cannot allow them to take me away! I shall die—I’ll kill myself before they take me. You shall find me hanging at the end of a rope!” She became hysterical, her voice rose to a screech.

  “Calm yourself. I will not allow you to be arrested, but you will have to go away somewhere safe. You cannot stay here.”

  “No, no, no, no,” she chanted, shaking her tangled mane of golden hair. “How can you suggest such a thing? I am your wife. We cannot be parted. Do you remember when we met? How smitten you were—a lovesick boy from Oxford. I was utterly charmed. I had suitors, plenty of them—I gave them all up for you.”

  “That was a long time ago. You have changed and so have I. This separation will be the best thing for both of us. You have become too dependent upon me. It is time you forged your own life. I have revenged your honour. Arthur Hamilton is a broken man and Clara Hamilton is ruined for marriage as you were ruined. My debt to you is paid.”

  “Is that how you think of it? My rape was a debt laid upon you—a burden!”

  “You must go away! There will be difficult questions to answer regarding Mr. Quince. I could only protect you for so long, Grace. That time has come to an end.”

  “It is that girl,” she hissed like a snake and unwound her thin form in his direction. “That mewling pasty-faced cunt is behind this. You lured her here and fucked her, pretending to do it for my sake! I’m not a fool, Branson. I’m cleverer than you ever will be. Who do you think you are? Do you think you can tell me what to do? Look at you, you weak coward! You want to kill me but you are not man enough to do even that!”

  He pulled away from her with disgust. How could he have ever thought he loved her? Branson recalled her cleverness and quick wit. She was a sparkling jewel in their crowd, sharp-tongued and he’d wanted to impress her. He had wanted her to love him back then.

  “I am trying very hard not to hate you, Grace. Do not make it easy to do so.”

  Grace smiled, beguiling and seductive. She opened her gown and slid it from her shoulders. She was not wearing a corset. Her breasts hung loose under a thin white slip. Her blue eyes glittered. She moved languidly to him, took his hand in hers and pressed it over her tit.

  “Hate me, Bran. I don’t mind. Do what you like with me.”

  He rested his hand on her throat, shaking from the strain of holding back his rage. “I do not like to do anything with you. I have not wanted any part of you for many years.”

  “Liar,” she crooned and ran her tongue over her lips in a manner he imagined she found seductive. “I watched you with her. You were thinking of me while you fucked her. Tell me what it was like taking her. Did she fight you? Did she protest? I could only see the act itself—your buttocks thrusting between her thighs. Like the day your uncle took me in the summer house. Were you not aroused by my story of his raping me? Do you want to do the same thing? You are jealous of your uncle. I know you want to take me by force, Branson—so do it,” she moaned.

  He recoiled, understanding a hideous truth for the first time. “Arthur Hamilton did not rape you. You lying bitch.”

  Grace was suddenly frightened and cringing as though she realized she had gone too far. “Forgive me, I was only trying to please you.” She pressed her naked flesh against him. “I am so very grateful for what you have done for me. You’ve made me happy, Branson. Let me show you how happy.” She took his hand and led him to the four-poster bed. “We have not yet had our wedding night, my love. I want to consummate our union. Make love to me, husband.”

  Grace pulled off her slip and stretched on the bed. She raised her arms over head like an erotic Venus. Branson examined her body coldly. She was sexually alluring and she was his wife. If he could not have Clara, then sleeping with Grace would provide him with a life of a kind. A life of no greater misery than the one he had been living. It was something to consider.

  The net of his bleak future tightened around him. Branson took a step toward the bed. Her cheeks were dark hollows. Skeletal. In the dim recesses of his mind, he heard Clara’s voice telling him she loved him. He saw her bright eye and shining brown hair. He felt her trembling body under his, giving herself to him wholly. How could he substitute that pure love with this grotesque imitation?

  “How easy you are to manipulate,” Grace giggled hysterically. “What a fool! How impotently you raged at Arthur Hamilton yet he was twice the man you are. He did not need an invitation to take a woman. Arthur Hamilton knew what to do with that thing between his legs.”

  And then it was clear—blindingly clear. Grace was right. He had been a fool, a young, idealistic romantic fool. Grace was not only mad, she was perverse. Branson gazed at her, detached and unfeeling, at last able to see the woman he had been tricked into marrying.

  He turned from her and walked to the door.

  “Get dressed. I’ll call Piers to pack your things. You’ll be leaving on the morning coach.”

  “I don’t think so.” Grace’s voice was flinty and contemptuous. “I am not going anywhere.”

  “I’m your husband, Grace. You’ll go where I send you. You forget I have the legal authority to have you committed. And after what you’ve just told me, I will have no scruple. I cannot wait to sign the order,” he said savagely.

  He strode down the hall. Seeing Clara’s face before him, in his mind’s eye, had the effect of filling him almost with joy. A novel feeling and Branson savoured the sensation. That loathsome scene, the mad woman and her twisted perversions vanished behind him. He would write Edgar for Clara’s address just as soon as Grace was safely deposited in Switzerland.

  “You are weak!”

  Grace’s scream echoed behind him like a banshee’s wail down hall.

  “You will never get me out of your life! Never! You are not strong enough! I shall see you in hell first!”

  Branson spun around. Grace raised the knife in her hand and lunged at him.

  Chapter Nine

  Hyde Park, London ~ the next morning

  MRS. BROCKVILLE was shocked by the announcement that Miss Clara Hamilton was waiting to see her in the downstairs parlour. She was equally eager to speak to the girl and discover what happened after she’d left Somerset, in detail. Mrs. Brockville had heard the rumours, of course; all of London was talking about Clara and Branson Hamilton, but to hear the tale from the horse’s mouth would be a coup indeed.

  “My dear, Miss Hamilton! How well you look. Have you just come from your mother’s house? We’ve heard the news, such a sad business. Colonel Brockville is deeply distressed by this turn of events, as indeed your father and mother must be. And you! My dear, is it true that you were confined to Gateshead Asylum? Was it because of the ghost? I might have warned you to keep that story to yourself. Practical men like your father do not credit the supernatural. He would chalk your visitation up to a weakness in your mind. However did you get out?”

  Clara’s hand travelled automatically to her shortened hair. It had been difficult to dress it this morning. She’d managed to pin it up with a comb but it lacked curl.

  “Branson Hamilton came to my aid,” she said quietly. “He convinced the director to release me into his care. I’ve just spoken to my brother, Edgar. He suggested I come and explain matters to you as you have been so kind to me. I regret to say I led you to believe that I was married to Mr. Hamilton. That is not the case. I intended to marry him but was met with an insurmountable obstacle and nothing can be done about it. He is not a wicked man, Mrs. Brockville, though I’ve tried to cast him as such. Branson has done my family a good turn and whether or not my father can appreciate it, we owe my cousin a great debt.”

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Brockville murmured. Her eyes were fixed on Clara’s face with avid attention. “You were living at Windemere Hall, without a chaperone, with your cousin. My dear you must see how it looks. Naturally, your father had a strong reaction to hearing of your living arrangements.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, on the face of it, it would appear you are right.”

  Mrs. Brockville patted her hand and leaned closer. “Just between us, entre nous, Captain Strachan is thoroughly put out by this business with your father. It seems they had come to an agreement of sorts and Arthur Hamilton reneged. Strachan is most grieved, though I am not sure why. The captain was also negotiating for your release from the asylum, perhaps even as Branson Hamilton was finding success. You have two rather ardent admirers, my dear.”

  “My brother informed me of the arrangement Captain Strachan made with my father. I assure you, Mrs. Brockville, there is not a jot of admiration in that gentleman for me. Captain Strachan has shown his true colours. I only hope he will put the past behind him and find happiness with Miss Delisle because he has lost a friend in me.”

  Mrs. Brockville leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it! I suspected as much. You may speak freely, Miss Hamilton. My, how strange! Miss Hamilton!” The lady laughed. “I could see from the first that you and Mr. Branson were meant to be together so not another word about obstacles! Nothing shall separate you. You must not allow it. I’ve never seen two young people as much in love as you and young Branson.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh dear. I am sorry, Mrs. Brockville. I vowed I would not cry. Your kindness is much appreciated. Mr. Branson and I have parted friends and are not likely to see each other again. The obstacle is fixed and divides us utterly. It is hopeless, I’m afraid.”

  It was all too much, more than she could bear. Clara fell to weeping openly.

  “Oh my dear girl, your nerves are shattered. Now, now, pull yourself together. Does your mother still take to her bed?”

  Clara nodded and wailed louder. “If it were not for Edgar, I should be quite alone. My father will not speak to me; my mother complains of her nerves and I dare not test them. Edgar is my only friend and he is away at business ‘til all hours. He is happy though. I’ve never seen him look so well. It suits him to head up Hamilton Trading. I envy his occupation. I wish I were a man and could apply myself to something useful each day.”

  “Well then, here is the remedy! I have need of a secretary to manage the mountain of correspondence I am expected to reply to as the Colonel’s wife. This is in addition to the numerous social engagements I am required to attend and arrange! I can assure you it is not easy work, but for a sensible young lady, the employment is honourable and will give you a measure of independence and occupation. Are you interested?”

  Clara fought against her rising hope. “Mrs. Brockville, you are kindness itself, but please do not make your offer out of pity. I have the support of my brother, I am not without resources.”

  “Of course not, but it is a fine thing for a young woman to have her own money, don’t you think? I myself have a small independence left to me by my mother.”

  Mrs. Brockville waved away all objections to the scheme. “It is settled. You will travel with me to Petherham. We are hosting a shooting party in a few days time and I shall require your assistance. Oh! Perhaps I should warn you, Strachan is among the invited. I won’t let him bother you. We’ve invited Corporal Jack Denby to join the party.” The lady’s eyes twinkled. “You recall the young man, I hope. He was very attentive when last you met.”

  “Yes, of course. I should be glad to see him again. And—and will Miss Trudy Delisle be joining us?”

  “She will.” Mrs. Brockville patted Clara’s hand. “But you needn’t worry about her either. I haven’t told you the best part of my plan—you will be in close proximity to Windemere Hall! A brisk walk over the Down and there you are. I daresay you’ll find an excuse to slip away from the gathering and I promise I won’t look too hard for you, my dear.” The lady giggled. “Now, you must tell me everything about the ghost of Windemere Hall and the power she wields over our poor Mr. Branson.”

  §

  Windemere Hall ~ three days later

  BRANSON’S RECOVERY from the stab wound to his shoulder was slow and perilous. There were several hours when Death was in the room with them. Infection had set in. The doctor declared Master Hamilton to be in grave danger and likely to die.

  Piers had not been able to explain how the master of Windemere Hall came to be knifed in the back. Coming on the heels of Quince’s untimely death, it was only a matter of time before the physician’s enquiries became too pointed to deflect. Their secret would be out and either Grace would be sentenced to Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane or Piers would be hanged for a murderer. Much depended on Branson’s survival.

  Grace had hidden in her apartment, weeping inconsolably.

  “You must fight, Branson,” Piers said. He laid a fresh cold cloth on his brother-in-law’s forehead. “You must not die. Grace is already a dead woman and cannot be prosecuted. That was clever of you. A dead woman cannot inherit her husband’s property. What is to become of Gracie and me if you die, eh? How are we to live?”

  “You may go to hell for all I care.”

  Piers bounded to his feet. “What? What was that? Branson, are you awake?”

  Branson’s lungs burned. His mouth felt on fire and a sharp horrible pain pierced his shoulder. He was burning up and parched with thirst.

  “Water.”

  “Water—yes! Oh, thank God! You had us rather worried there, old man. You’ll be good as new now that the fever has broken, the doctor has said so. He’s off on his rounds but he’ll return this evening. He did not expect you to live, but I had no doubt. You are too strong.” Piers lowered his voice. “Gracie told me what happened. She told me all about it, Bran. She is so piteously sorry for what she’s done—if you saw her—how grievously she suffers—it would break your heart. You mustn’t be angry. This has been an anxious time for her what with Miss Hamilton on the premises. Gracie is eager to be a wife to you now and give you children.”

  Piers set a cup of cold water against Branson’s lips. “I’ve had a look at your stepfather’s will. I found it in the desk drawer in the study. I hope you don’t mind, but when you were so near to death, I had to learn what my sister’s rights were. As it happens, unless you have a male heir, Edgar Hamilton will inherit Windemere in the event of your death. We shall have to do something about that, Bran. To protect your inheritance, you understand.”

  His brother-in-law’s voice distorted and faded as Branson drifted in and out of consciousness. There was something he meant to do ... something he intended....

  “Annulment,” he rasped.

  Piers shoved into Branson’s field of view. “An annulment...? Bran, you cannot annul a dead woman. To get an annulment, Gracie would have to be declared your living wife, and if she is alive then she has conjugal rights which she will want to exercise. If a child is conceived during the marriage, that’s all the better. An annulment is impossible, old boy.”

  “I’ll have your sister committed.”

  “Ah, yes. Grace mentioned that was your plan. For such a brilliant man, you did not think it through very carefully. You cannot have a dead woman committed. The choice is yours, Bran. You can be forever shackled to a madwoman or live free with a dead wife. I’m not a monster. Take a lover if you must, but Grace must continue to live at Windemere Hall.”

  “I don’t want her here. I don’t want you.”

  “You should have thought of that before you married into the Leeds family. Gracie is clever; she can appear as sane as a judge when her back is to the wall. You’ve seen what she’s like. Do you want a Bill of Divorce? Do you want her roaming free? What about Miss Hamilton—how will you protect her if Gracie is at liberty?” Piers set the cup on the nightstand. “At present, no one knows Grace is alive and that offers the surest protection for everyone.”

  “Clara Hamilton knows.”

  Piers frowned angrily. “That was stupid. You had best make sure that Miss Hamilton never crosses paths with my sister then. Grace has committed murder. She frightens me, Branson. You know better than anyone what she’s capable of when she’s threatened. Be warned. If you v
alue Miss Hamilton’s life, you will stay away from her. And keep her well away from the Hall.”

  The man rose to his feet and straightened his waistcoat. “We’ve talked long enough. You need your rest. The fact is nothing can be done about Grace until you are strong again. But think about what I’ve said. A dead wife is freedom. A living wife is a responsibility.”

  Branson did think about what his brother-in-law had said. He thought about it long and hard, but his thoughts did not take the direction Piers intended.

  There was no way out save one. One way to free them both.

  Grace was upstairs on the upper floor. His pistols were locked in a box on the top shelf of his wardrobe. Branson closed his eyes and thought of Clara and the last hour he’d had with her in the field.

  His mind cleared. His purpose was fixed.

  When he was well again, he would take one of the pistols, climb the stairs to Grace’s room and shoot her between the eyes.

  And then he would shoot himself.

  Edgar would take care of Clara. She would inherit Branson’s shares in Hamilton Trading and Windemere Hall would be her home. His mouth twisted with the irony. At the end of his life, he had finally learned to trust his Hamilton cousins.

  It might have been the fever or the infection, but Branson felt at peace. Dying did not worry him. It was living that had become untenable.

  §

  Petherham Manor, Somerset ~ five days later

  THE MAID entered Clara’s room carrying a beautiful gown of silver and midnight blue over her arms. The girl’s face was alight with excitement as she laid it on the bed.

  “What have you there?” Clara controlled her reaction in case the dress was intended for someone else.