She rocked faster, shot a fiery glance at Martin. "If you'd been here, like as not I'd've sent word-seen if you could talk her round, but she wouldn't say naught to me, no matter what I knew."
"She was forced." Martin's voice was even. "You're sure?"
Mrs. Crockett nodded. "As I'm sitting here. On the second of the year, it was, two days after the ball at the big house."
When both Martin and Mrs. Crockett remained silent, Amanda prompted, "You said you knew it wasn't Martin."
Mrs. Crockett looked directly at her. "Stands to reason, don't it? If he"-she nodded at Martin-"had wanted her, all he had to do was say. He wouldn't have needed to hold her down." She sent another glance at Martin; her lip trembled, her voice softened as she added, "He wouldn't have hurt her, either-there were enough lasses round here, even then, would have sworn to that. But my Sarah had bruises, big black bruises, all the way down her back. The blackguard had thrown her down on rocks to have his way with her." Mrs. Crockett jerked her head at Martin. "Wasn't him."
Martin stirred. Amanda could feel his suppressed rage vibrating through him; he was tense as a coiled spring. But his voice remained even when he asked, "Did she say anything, drop any hint over who it was?"
Mrs. Crockett snook her head. Never. You may be sure I'd have remembered if she had." After a moment, she continued, staring at the fire, "I still remember how she gathered her courage and faced her father when it had to be done. She tried to make him see reason, but him?" She snorted. "Locked her in her room, he did, then the beatings and the preachings began."
Amanda broke the ensuing silence. "Did he truly force her to take her life?"
"He took her life-he might not have tied the knot, but he made damned sure she did! He left her no choice-none." Mrs. Crockett hugged herself, and rocked back and forth, back and forth. "If only she'd kept a diary… but she never did."
They left the old woman rocking in her chair, and stepped back into the present, into the sunshine and light.
Amanda held her tongue on the ride back to the house. Allie took one look at Martin's face, then instructed them to ready themselves for luncheon; she served them in the parlor, now spick and span. Her eyes met Amanda's frequently, but she forbore to voice her questions.
She did, however, inform them that Reggie had eaten earlier and was now napping in his room. "Looks a lot improved, and no sign of any fever."
Relieved on that score, at the end of the meal, Amanda pushed back her chair. "Come, my lord earl, and conduct me around your family portraits." Rising, he raised a cynical brow at her; she opened her eyes wide. "Isn't that what gentleman do to impress potential brides?"
He studied her as he neared. "You're as transparent as glass."
She smiled and linked her arm in his. "Humor me."
The portraits hung all around the gallery at the top of the main stairs; as they went up, she glanced at his face. "Am I right in thinking that on your return to England, you didn't pursue the matter of who had committed the crime because you thought it was Luc?"
He didn't immediately reply. Reaching the landing, he stopped, then turned left. "I didn't know what to think-not to begin with, not later. Luc and I… until that time, we'd been closer than brothers. We grew up together, our mothers were sisters, we went to Eton, then on the town together…" He shrugged. "I honestly never came to any conclusion-it was possible, and that's as far as my thinking ever got."
"But you don't suspect Luc now?"
"No-triply no. Conlan's eyesight's too good, and as for using force…" His lips twisted; he glanced at her. "You know Luc-when it comes to women, the only force he's ever employed is to hold them off."
Amanda humphed. "Indeed. So it's not him. Who else could it be?" They stepped into the gallery.
"The answer is not what you think-but you'll see." Martin led her to the portraits.
Allie had been busy; the curtains had been drawn back and secured with their cords. Light flooded in, reflecting off dust motes still swirling in the air, washing over the portraits hanging in regimented rows along the walls.
"We may as well start with old Henry, the very first earl." Martin led her to a portrait of a crusty-looking gentleman, posed with a bevy of spaniels gazing adoringly up at him. "The story goes he was more fond of his dogs than he was of his countess. That's her."
Amanda looked at the neighboring portrait-a severe-looking woman with pinched features and iron-grey hair. "Hmm."
They progressed along the portraits until they came to one a little more recent. "My grandfather, the third earl."
A study done in the subject's prime; Amanda studied it, glanced frowningly at Martin, then at the picture. "He doesn't look much like you."
"I don't look much like him." Martin met her gaze. "In features, I take after my mother."
He nodded ahead and they continued, strolling past various Fulbridges, every portrait, especially those of the males, confirming his words. The Fulbridges had a different shaped head, a heavier brow, a less clear-cut jaw. An altogether different cast of features, and even more important, a heavier, more sloping-shouldered frame. They bred true, from the first earl all the way to the last, Martin's father.
Amanda stopped before that portrait, not needing to be told, aware of the quietness that stole over Martin, the hooding of his eyes. She studied the man who had banished his own son-as it now seemed, without cause. The portrait showed a stern face and, yes, a righteous stance, but there was no hint of cruelty, no sign of distemper.
Frowning, she looked ahead-the next painting captured her attention. Focused it dramatically. "Your mother?" She stopped directly in front, gaze shifting avidly from one to the other of the three faces shown.
"And her sister."
"Luc's mother-I know. She looks so much younger here."
"They were in their twenties at the time."
He'd said he took after his mother, and to some extent that was true; the resemblance was clear, but muted by the difference between feminine and masculine forms. But Amanda could now see what he'd actually meant by the comment. She pointed to the man standing between the two sisters, behind the table at which they sat, one on either side. "Who's he?"
"My uncle, their older brother."
The man was, if not the exact image of Martin, then a very close replica. Such a good match that it took no imagination at all to see how one could be mistaken for the other, even at relatively close quarters.
Amanda stared at the painting, drank in all it told her, all Martin had wanted her to see with her own eyes. Then she turned and met his agatey gaze. "The murderer's a relative of yours, but not a Fulbridge. Someone from your mother's family."
When he said nothing, she continued, "And that someone is still alive, and doesn't want you looking into the old murder, because if you do…"
After a moment, Martin spoke, his eyes on hers. "That someone was hoping, because I'd let the matter rest for so long, when I returned to London and made no move to immediately proclaim my innocence and search for the real murderer, that the matter was closed and they were safe. Now, however, my interest in you has become public, and the murderer has learned I've formally offered for you, and no one who knew the Cynsters would imagine I could have gained the family's approval without giving an undertaking to resolve the old scandal, so, suddenly, unexpectedly, the murderer finds himself under threat."
She nodded, her eyes locked on his. "And so he struck back-it was you he was trying to kill when he shot Reggie."
"Yes."
"Do you think he's realized? That it was Reggie and not you he shot?"