The Outcast's Redemption

A prickling fear was already whispering the answer.

‘You will see.’ He strode along the gallery and stopped at one of the paintings. Only then did he release her. Grace resisted the urge to rub her arm where his fingers had held her in a vice-like grip.

They were standing beneath a picture. A family group, an older man with powdered hair in a dark frock coat and a tall crowned hat, a lady in an elegant muslin dress with a blue sash that matched her stylish turban. Between them, in informal pose, stood their children, a fair-haired schoolboy and beside him, his arm protectively resting on the boy’s shoulder, a tall young man dressed in the natural style that was so fashionable ten years ago, a black frock coat and tight breeches. But it was not the clothes that held her attention, it was the lean, handsome face and the coldly cynical gleam in the violet-blue eyes that stared out defiantly beneath a shock of thick, curling dark hair. She glanced at the man beside her and involuntarily stepped away.

‘Yes, that is me.’ There was a sneer in the deep, drawling voice. ‘Wolfgang Charles Everdene Arrandale. Not-so-beloved son and heir of Arrandale. This was painted to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Not that it was much of a celebration, I was a rakehell even then, in true Arrandale tradition. Is it any wonder my father thought me capable of murder?’

‘And the boy?’ It was all she could think of to say.

‘My brother Richard, seven years my junior. He could have inherited Arrandale. When I left England I deliberately cut myself off from the family, ignored letters and messages, even the news that my parents were dead. I wanted everyone to think I had died, too, but it seems Richard would not accept that. Consequently the miserly lawyers have held the purse strings at Arrandale and my foolish brother has dipped into his own pocket to pay for necessary maintenance work here.’

Surely a murderer would not say such things.

Grace needed to think, so she moved along the gallery, studying the portraits. There were signs of Wolfgang Arrandale in many of them, in the shape of the eye, the strong chin and in most of the men she saw that same world-weary look, but the lines of dissipation were etched deeper. Reason told her she should be frightened of this man, but she felt only an overwhelming sadness and an irrational, dangerous wish to comfort him.

At the end of the gallery she turned.

‘Why have you come back now?’

‘I learned I have a daughter.’

‘You did not know?’

‘No. I thought when I left England I had no commitments, no responsibilities. I had brought enough shame on the family and thought it best if I disappeared. Now, for my daughter’s sake, I need to prove my innocence.’

She forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Are you a murderer?’

‘I have killed men, yes, in duels and in war. But I did not kill my wife.’

He held her gaze. Grace desperately wanted to believe him, but she could not ignore the portraits staring down at her from the walls, generations of rogues, rakes and murderers going back to the time of good King Hal. Everyone in the parish knew the history of the family. Why should this Arrandale be any different to his ancestors?

Her legs felt weak and she sank down on to a chair, regardless of the dust. She should have known who he was. It made such sense, she should have known.

He began to pace the floor, his boots echoing on the bare boards.

‘There is a warrant for my arrest and a price on my head. If I am caught, your father could be charged with harbouring a criminal. He did not want you to have that on your conscience, too. But he was afraid you might guess.’

‘Why should I do that?’ She was answering herself as much as him. ‘I was at school when your wife died. By the time I came home to look after Papa it was old news and the Arrandales were rarely mentioned.’

‘Except to curse the name for bringing hardship and poverty to the village.’

She heard the bitterness in his voice and said quietly, ‘Will you tell me what happened?’

He stared out of the window.

‘I do not know. We argued, I rode out to cool my heels and when I came back I found her lying at the bottom of the stairs.’

‘Could she have fallen?’

He looked at her then. ‘Judge for yourself.’

He strode off towards a door at the far end of the gallery. Grace knew this was her chance. She could go back the way they had come, escape from the house and from Wolfgang Arrandale. That would be the safe, sensible thing to do.