A Clandestine Courtship by Allison Lane

of the London gossip as wild oats. James had suggested placing John’s inheritance in a trust so that youthful profligacy would not damage the estate in the event that John got the title before he settled down. The earl had dismissed the idea, but someone had overheard the conversation and sent word to John. That was what had sent him hurtling back to Ridgeway, where he found that James had convinced the earl to adopt agricultural reform. Meg Price had been ravished the next day. So, in a way, he had been responsible.
    He shuddered.
    Only now did he admit that a trust would never have worked. John had not been sowing wild oats. He had not been misguided or immature. Time had not made him more responsible. Even their father’s mollycoddling and eagerness to overlook John’s failings had not ruined his character.
    John’s problem had been far more basic. He had needed to be the best, the most powerful, the most successful. Facing a mirror image of himself every day of his life had eaten at him. James’s existence had proved that John was not unique. There was another man who shared his looks, his talents, his breeding. A man who had earned widespread respect and genuine affection – two things John had never experienced.
    He shuddered.
    John had been more depraved than James had ever suspected. His problems had arisen from his own character; his actions had been taken by his own choice.
    James ran frustrated fingers through his hair.
    But even John’s willfulness could not excuse murder. And so he had to find the killer. Justice was more important than the victim’s character. A man who could kill once would find it easier to kill a second time, and for less cause. James had called enough tragedy down on his dependents. He could not be responsible for more.
    He returned to the drawing room and joined a whist table.
    “Lady Northrup hosts delightful parties,” said Lady Carworth while dealing the first hand.
    “For one of her reputation,” said Mrs. Bridwell with a snort.
    “Martha—” began Lady Carworth.
    “You know very well she is no better than she should be,” interrupted Mrs. Bridwell. “I have heard revolting tales of her escapades. Estimates make her familiar with half the men in this shire.”
    “I doubt it,” protested Sir Richard stoutly. “I’ve seen no evidence to support those tales, and I know for a fact that many of them are false.”
    “Ha!” Mrs. Bridwell pursed her lips as she arranged her cards.
    “Be honest, ma’am,” he urged her. “Every one of the stories you so gleefully cite predates your arrival in Ridgefield. There has not been a single new tale in eight years.”
    “That doesn’t make them false.”
    “Where did you hear them?” asked James.
    “Here and there.”
    “Discounting anything my brother might have said, for he delighted in prevarication, who else claims knowledge of misbehavior? I know of no tales before I left.”
    “There were a few,” claimed Lady Carworth. “Though only in town. I doubt they would have reached Ridgeway. I believe the first surfaced in 1800.”
    “She would have been barely sixteen then,” he protested.
    “Old enough,” insisted Mrs. Bridwell. “And why else would her husband all but abandon her?” Her triumphant smile made him long to wring her neck.
    “Spade lead,” said Sir Richard, determinedly turning the topic. “I find it distasteful to disparage one’s hostess in her own drawing room.”
    James followed suit, but his mind was not on the game. If the stories had started in 1800, then he was not responsible, for he had paid her little heed until two years later. So why had John turned on her? He had to be behind them. She had sworn that he was responsible for stealing her reputation. Which meant John had been making her life miserable for more years than James cared to contemplate.
    Mrs. Bridwell continued to mutter imprecations under her breath. Mary was her favorite target, though her barbs skewered nearly everyone