A Sinner No More Read online

  For the longest time, she had told herself the death had been an accident. That he hadn’t really meant to go that far. The situation had gotten away from them and in the temporary frenzy, the worst had happened. But that too would have been a lie. Because Lord Hawksmoor had reached for her after knocking his brother down. He’d been about to take her from the larder where Phillip had cornered her. Freedom was within her grasp. Then Phillip had spoken, madness wrapped around his hateful words.

  But Lord Hawksmoor had heard everything. Madalene had never seen such fury in the young lord. He released her, attacked his brother and then—

  And then Phillip was dead.

  Lord Hawksmoor left his family’s home that night, never to return. And she had been dismissed only days afterward. Madalene had worked diligently over the years to put the events of that night behind her. To push the tormenting memory from her mind, the guilt she carried for her part in it. She’d almost succeeded too, until Lord Hawksmoor had arrived at Northill, wounded and near death, all memory of who he was and what he’d done erased from his mind.

  Until now.

  She should never have spoken his brother’s name.

  She nestled in next to the bureau, pulling her skirts from about her legs. The open door was but ten feet away. Madalene glanced at Lord Hawksmoor. He remained on the floor, having pushed himself into a sitting position. The moon shone its light through the window leaving the outline of his body evident through his linen nightshirt. He’d lost weight over the past few weeks, the proof of such in the sharp angles of his bones that had once been covered in lean muscle. Still, his grip on her had been strong, fueled by the fear of what he remembered.

  “You know, don’t you,” he whispered, his gaze riveted to the floor. “You know what I did.”

  What did she say? What could she say? “Yes.”

  His brow furrowed, as if his mind worked to recreate the full memory from pieces newly discovered. “You were there.”

  She swallowed and glanced at the door again. Should she run? But what was the point? Where would she go that he could not find her? Only days before the attack that left him in this state, he’d asked Mr. Bowen to provide a proper introduction to her, knowing she had been in the man’s employ. After all these years, he had discovered her whereabouts. But how? And why?

  His appeal had raised any number of questions with Mr. Bowen, who had summarily declined Lord Hawksmoor’s request. What lord requested a proper introduction to a servant? It was imprudent. Mr. Bowen had broached the question with her but she feigned ignorance, telling him the only connection she had to Lord Hawksmoor was that she had once been employed by his family years earlier. Whether Mr. Bowen believed her or not, she could not say. But he had not inquired further and, thankfully, had refrained from mentioning the request to her father.

  “Answer me.” Lord Hawksmoor’s words shot out, harsh and demanding.

  Madalene pressed her back against the wall. This was not the man she had known. This was the man she had seen awakened that night five years ago, filled with rage and desperation. She should fear him, but she didn’t. Instead, she feared herself. Feared the feelings he evoked within her.

  “Yes. I was there.”

  Is that why he had asked Mr. Bowen for an introduction? Had he tracked her down, anxious she may someday reveal the truth of what she had witnessed that night? She had sworn to him she wouldn’t. Promised him her silence as she tried to calm him, to erase the hint of madness from his eyes. Eyes that had up until that night, held nothing but warmth and kindness.

  “This is why my family has turned their back on me, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer. What could she say? His family had turned their backs on him well before that, always giving preference to his older brother and treating him as a burden, a necessity as a spare but good for nothing else. What purpose would it serve him to know that now?

  “Should I call for Mr. Bowen?” She was unsure of what else to do. Leaving him alone like this, the realization of what he’d done so newly discovered didn’t feel right. Not after everything he had once done for her.

  “No!” He pushed himself backward against the bed frame, retreating into the shadows. “Please. Can we keep it between us? Just until—”

  He stopped, helplessness entwined around his words. His gaze traveled around the dark room as if searching for something.

  “Until what?”

  “I don’t remember why I did it.” He looked at her, his breathing labored. The distress in his voice clawed at her heart. How did he still have the ability to do this to her? Why could she not turn away?

  Because he did not turn away when you needed him, a voice whispered from deep inside her. She pushed it away, silencing it. But the words lingered in the silence.

  She stared at him, at the play of shadows cast against his angular features. Features made more prominent during his convalescence. He had always been striking, though many had considered his brother, Phillip, with his gregarious personality and crystal blue eyes, the more handsome of the two. She hadn’t, though. She’d preferred Lord Hawksmoor’s quiet kindness, his sweet smiles, his quick wit. Perhaps that is why she came back here this evening. During Lord Hawksmoor’s time at Northill, the hardness and severity of whom he had become after Phillip’s death often slipped away, revealing the man she remembered. The man she had grown so very fond of.

  Even now, with the worst of his memories retrieved, at least in part, she could still see the shadow of who he had once been. It gave her hope.

  But hope was not something she’d had the best experience with.

  “I need to go.”

  Fear flickered in his eyes before a curtain fell over them, shuttering his emotions. He nodded.

  She stood, gingerly testing her shaking legs. Still, she hesitated, looking down at where he sat upon the floor, alone and abandoned by both his family and his memories. “Do you need assistance getting back into bed?”

  “No,” he whispered, then with more force, “Go.”

  She did not ask again. She turned and hurried from the room, down the staircase until she reached the servants’ entrance. She hastily pulled on her coat and ran the short distance through the snow-packed pathway that led from the main house to the small cottage she and Father called home.

  Trepidation nipped at her heels with each step. Something deep and elemental had shifted this night. She could feel it. And it frightened her.

  * * *

  Sleep remained elusive as Hawk picked through the shadows of his mind in an effort to bring forth anything else he could remember about the night his brother died. The night he’d killed him. But the details remained lost in the murk. They had fought, of that he was certain. His brother was bigger than he, heavier. He could remember the feeling of Phillip’s weight pressing him into the ground.

  No. The floor. They had been inside. And he remembered the fear. The belief that everything hinged on this one moment. On his ability to stop his brother. That if he failed, the consequences would be dire.

  Had he simply been defending himself? But if so, why? Why would his own brother try to kill him? He had nothing to gain from it. Phillip was the heir. He had everything. And why would Hawk, in turn, go so far as to then kill Phillip, as if it was the only option available to him. Because surely, if they had been inside one of the Ravenwood properties there would have been any number of servants or family members there who could put a stop to the altercation.

  Miss Cosgrove had been there to bear witness. Not that he expected she would be the one to step in. She was a tiny thing, and would have been but fifteen or sixteen at the time.

  Yet she had watched him kill his brother, helpless to stop him. Was that why she’d been dismissed? Because she knew the truth? His family had obviously gone to great lengths to cover up what had happened with their cockamamie story, yet they had still banished him from their lives, despite the fact he was now heir to the title and lands.

  The answers refused
to come and by the time the sun rose in the sky, he was no farther ahead than when Miss Cosgrove had left him. He closed his eyes and recollected the feeling of her arms around him, comforting him. The scent of her sneaking past the hideous scenes playing out in his mind, wrapping around him like a blanket. Her sweet voice whispering nonsensical words of comfort he could no longer recall. Then she had let go of him, pulled away, and all the horror swept back in to fill the void.

  “You look like hell,” Mr. Bowen said as he walked into the room after a cursory knock.

  Hawk glared at his host. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Mr. Bowen crossed the room with even strides and threw the curtains open the remainder of the way. Brilliant sunshine bolted through the window and spilled across the floor.

  Hawk winced. The brightness shone in stark contrast to his current mood and he did not appreciate the intrusion of the sunlight, or his host.

  “You will be pleased to learn I will be taking my leave of your humble abode.” It was time to go, to return to his old life. The answers he sought were out there and he needed to find them.

  “And how do you plan on doing that? You can barely stand. You’ve easily lost a stone in weight while you’ve been recuperating. If you want to return to your life in London, I might suggest you ensure you have both your wits and your strength about you, in the event someone else decides to have a go at you.”

  Hardly an enthusiastic endorsement of the life he’d led before arriving here. “Do you mind enlightening me as to why I was attacked by Lord Pengrin in the first place?”

  Mr. Bowen leaned a shoulder against the bedpost. “Pengrin was a gambler, and not a very good one. He owed you a substantial amount of money and you’d called in your markers, cutting him off at the tables and banning him from The Devil’s Lair until he made good on his debts.”

  “I assume he was displeased by this.”

  “You might say that. But Pengrin was also involved in some rather unsavory dealings. One of which threatened to financially destroy a good friend of mine, Lord Glenmor. We believed you might have information that could help us in this regard—”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were a collector of information. You kept files on practically everyone of consequence in London. Details on their habits and vices, business dealings, money owed and to whom and for how much. Information was the true commodity you traded in. You knew enough to destroy any number of people at any given time.”

  “And did I?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I sound like a charming fellow.” Mr. Bowen didn’t answer, but his confirmation echoed loudly within the silence. “I assume Pengrin got to me before you arrived?”

  “Yes, though not by much. Pengrin had you backed against your desk with a pistol pressed under your chin. You looked somewhat the worse for wear. He’d brought two unpleasant gentlemen with him and there had obviously been a tussle, though both of Pengrin’s henchmen, as well as two of your own men, were dead on the floor by the time we arrived.”

  More death. More blood on his hands.

  Mr. Bowen continued, “We attempted to distract Pengrin, but things went a bit awry and as a result, you just missed getting a bullet to the brain.”

  “You paint such a lovely picture. I take it Pengrin was not a good shot.”

  “I have no idea. Lord Glenmor was the one who thwarted his attempt, throwing off his aim. Regardless, if you wish to leave, do so. But I vigorously suggest you regain your strength first, if not your mind.”

  “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  “Eat more and move more.”

  “Move more?”

  “A little manual labor might help as well. I’ll send up my steward, Mr. Cosgrove. Perhaps he can be of service in that regard.”

  The name came like a punch to the gut. “Mr. Cosgrove? A relation to Miss Cosgrove?”

  “Her father.”

  Dear lord. Would she have told the man what had transpired between them last night? Or worse, with his brother? But no, she couldn’t have. Had she, any self-respecting father would have marched into the room, shotgun in hand, and demanded recompense. Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to take the chance Mr. Cosgrove was merely biding his time waiting for the perfect moment. He’d had enough people shooting at him in recent history and held little interest in a repeat performance.

  “I hardly think I need—”

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Bowen pushed away from the bedpost and waved off Hawk’s attempted refusal. “Fresh air will do you good.”

  “Fresh air? It is the middle of bloody January!” Hawk motioned toward the window but the blue sky and sunshine lessened the impact of his claim.

  “Good for the lungs. I’ll send Cosgrove up when he has a spare minute. You’ll like him. Good man.”

  Hawk sputtered as he tried to find words to stop this madness. He did not need to go outside with the father of the woman he’d been having inappropriate thoughts about since the moment she walked into his bedchamber. And he most certainly did not need to spend time alone outside with that man where no one was around to witness what he might do.

  Even if Cosgrove didn’t plan to kill him outright for past or current offenses, he could certainly work him to death. Which begged the question—what exactly was entailed in regaining his strength? Was he to toss bales of hay about? Muck out stables? He was a bloody viscount, for crying out loud! Almost an earl! He didn’t do…manual labor.

  But by the time this reasoning hit him, his most irritating host had slipped from the room like an evil specter, leaving Hawk to stare at the door and wonder what the hell else could go wrong in his life.

  * * *

  “There you are, Maddie, my dear.”

  Madalene jumped at the sound of her father’s voice, her nerves stretched to a thin, taut line. She had not slept in two nights. How could she? Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Lord Hawksmoor’s face, an upsetting mixture of remembrance and horror as the truth of what he had done cut into him like a hundred knives finding their mark.

  Of all the memories he had to recall, why did it have to be that one?

  She turned to find her father standing in the door of their kitchen. The steward’s cottage on Northill Hall’s estates was smaller than the one she had been borne to over twenty years ago on Lord Walkerton’s estate, yet this one felt more like home to her than that one ever had. Perhaps because they were secure here. Treated as if they belonged. Valued. It was a new feeling and one she was afraid to get too used to.

  “Good evening, Father. How was your day?” She stirred the pot in front of her, the aroma of stew and spices wafting up until her stomach gurgled in response. After her run-in with Lord Hawksmoor three days ago, she had lost her appetite, but today her body had let it be known it would not stand for such mistreatment much longer.

  “Quite well.” Her father leaned over her shoulder and breathed in the scents. “That smells wonderful, my dear.”

  “It is one of Mother’s old recipes.”

  Her father gave a small smile and the lines around his light blue eyes crinkled in the corners. The memory of her mother was a difficult one, her final years with her father mixed with anger and resentment, smothering the love they had once shared. Father blamed himself, for the years he’d been away at war, a situation he’d had no control over thanks to Lord Walkerton. The man’s death several months earlier had done little to heal the wound his actions created, both emotional and physical. The only positive to the situation had been the roundabout way it led them here, to Mr. Bowen’s employ.

  “You look tired, Maddie. Are you feeling quite well?”

  She turned her attention back to the stew. “Yes, of course. Everything is fine, Papa. Just a bit of a restless night, I suppose. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  She hated to give him cause to worry. He had spent enough time berating himself for not being able to properly provide for them upon his return from the war. People had overlooked his a
bilities and seen only the empty sleeve where his arm had once been. But to her, her father had always been a great man. A man who had never given up. Not on himself, not on her and not on life, no matter how dire or dark their circumstances became.

  “Very well, then.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took a seat at the table behind her. “I have had an interesting request from our Mr. Bowen.”

  “You have?” She often found Mr. Bowen and her father with their heads bent over plans in the study, determining the best use of the fields and improvements they wished to make to the estate. It was a collaborative effort and Father relished the freedom and respect Mr. Bowen gave him in his role as steward at Northill.

  “Yes. It appears Lord Hawksmoor has indicated he wishes to return to London.”

  Madalene’s stomach dropped. Foolish. She should be happy over such news. The sooner he left, the sooner she could get on with her life without the constant reminder of that fateful night haunting her dreams.

  She ladled the stew into two bowls and fought to keep her voice light. “When does he leave?”

  “Ah, well, that is where the interesting request comes in. You see, Mr. Bowen has suggested to our injured lord that if he wishes to return to his life beyond Northill, he would be wise to regain his strength first. To ward off any further disgruntled customers, I assume.” Father smiled and walked back to the table and took a seat.

  “And how does he propose to do that?” He hadn’t even been able to keep his feet under him when she came upon him the other night. His legs had given out beneath him and he’d grabbed her for support, taking them both down to the floor in the process.

  “With my assistance. It seems I am to put the future Earl of Ravenwood to work.”

  Madalene nearly dropped the bowls in her hand as she delivered them to the table. “You are to what?”