unarguable logic. Keeping Devil's image in mind helped
enormously—one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to
reinforce her conclusion.
Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one
hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter
how she tried, she couldn't escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted
strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his
Cousin Clara's belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping
his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn't interfere with
his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.
She didn't want to believe it, but she'd heard him herself.
He'd stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone
believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step
removed from a despot; to them and the
ton
, what Devil Cynster, duke
of St. Ives, stated, was.
The only one inclined to question him was herself.
Tolly hadn't been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.
Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man?
Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a
heavy purse—she'd felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the
impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She'd seen no gun; it seemed
unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A
highwayman did not seem at all likely.
As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the
field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use
pistols.
Tolly had been murdered.
She wasn't sure when she had reached that conclusion;
it was now as inescapable as the dawn.
Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back
and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it—why did she feel so
involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her—upon her
soul—to see justice done.
But that wasn't the cause of her sleeplessness.
She'd heard Tolly's voice in the cottage, heard the
relief he'd felt when he'd realized he'd reached Devil. He'd thought he'd
reached safety—someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have
sworn Devil cared—cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of
Tolly's murder said otherwise.
If he truly cared, wouldn't he be searching for the
murderer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his "caring" merely
an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak
and shallow?
She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe
it.
Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.
----
Chapter 6
Contents - Prev | Next
It was an illusion—all an illusion—a typically arrogant
sleight of hand. The scales fell from Honoria's eyes late the next morning,
right in the middle of Tolly's funeral.
The crowd attending was considerable. A short service
had been held in the church in the grounds, a stone building ringed by ancient
trees shading monuments to Cynsters long gone.
Then the pallbearers—Devil and his cousins—had carried
the coffin to the grave, set in a small clearing beyond the first circle of
trees. Contrary to her intention to merge with the crowd, Honoria had been partnered
first by Vane, who had given her his arm, thus including her in the family
procession to the church, then later claimed by Amanda and Amelia, who had
steered her to the grave, admitting they were acting on Devil's orders. A
funeral was no place to make a stand. Resigned, Honoria had capitulated,
accepting a position behind the twins at the graveside.
It was then the truth struck her.
The males of the family lined the other side of the
grave. Directly opposite stood Tolly's brothers, Charles, with Simon beside
him. Devil stood next to Simon; as Honoria watched, he placed a hand on Simon's
shoulder. The boy looked up; Honoria witnessed their shared glance, that silent
communication at which Devil excelled.
Vane stood next to Devil;
enormously—one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to
reinforce her conclusion.
Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one
hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter
how she tried, she couldn't escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted
strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his
Cousin Clara's belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping
his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn't interfere with
his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.
She didn't want to believe it, but she'd heard him herself.
He'd stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone
believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step
removed from a despot; to them and the
ton
, what Devil Cynster, duke
of St. Ives, stated, was.
The only one inclined to question him was herself.
Tolly hadn't been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.
Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man?
Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a
heavy purse—she'd felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the
impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She'd seen no gun; it seemed
unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A
highwayman did not seem at all likely.
As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the
field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use
pistols.
Tolly had been murdered.
She wasn't sure when she had reached that conclusion;
it was now as inescapable as the dawn.
Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back
and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it—why did she feel so
involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her—upon her
soul—to see justice done.
But that wasn't the cause of her sleeplessness.
She'd heard Tolly's voice in the cottage, heard the
relief he'd felt when he'd realized he'd reached Devil. He'd thought he'd
reached safety—someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have
sworn Devil cared—cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of
Tolly's murder said otherwise.
If he truly cared, wouldn't he be searching for the
murderer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his "caring" merely
an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak
and shallow?
She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe
it.
Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.
----
Chapter 6
Contents - Prev | Next
It was an illusion—all an illusion—a typically arrogant
sleight of hand. The scales fell from Honoria's eyes late the next morning,
right in the middle of Tolly's funeral.
The crowd attending was considerable. A short service
had been held in the church in the grounds, a stone building ringed by ancient
trees shading monuments to Cynsters long gone.
Then the pallbearers—Devil and his cousins—had carried
the coffin to the grave, set in a small clearing beyond the first circle of
trees. Contrary to her intention to merge with the crowd, Honoria had been partnered
first by Vane, who had given her his arm, thus including her in the family
procession to the church, then later claimed by Amanda and Amelia, who had
steered her to the grave, admitting they were acting on Devil's orders. A
funeral was no place to make a stand. Resigned, Honoria had capitulated,
accepting a position behind the twins at the graveside.
It was then the truth struck her.
The males of the family lined the other side of the
grave. Directly opposite stood Tolly's brothers, Charles, with Simon beside
him. Devil stood next to Simon; as Honoria watched, he placed a hand on Simon's
shoulder. The boy looked up; Honoria witnessed their shared glance, that silent
communication at which Devil excelled.
Vane stood next to Devil;
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