Giles was right to say that Robin was unlikely to spend the rest of his days rusticating in Yorkshire. God only knew what he would want to do. But for now, it was good to be home.
Chapter 1
The moors of Durham were very different from the forests and farms of America, but they had their own kind of beauty. Since her father had died two months before, Maxima Collins had walked the hills every day, absorbing the wind and sun and rain with mindless gratitude. She would miss these barren moors more than anything else she had found on this side of the Atlantic.
After two hours of wandering, Maxie settled cross-legged on a hillside, absently nibbling a tender stem of wild grass. The bright spring sunshine seemed to dissipate the haze of grief that had numbed her since her father's death. Quite clearly, she saw that it was time to return to America.
Her uncle, Lord Collingwood, was kind in a distant way, but the rest of the family regarded their guest with feelings that were dubious at best. Maxie could understand their position; she was an oddity that never should have set foot in an English country house. She suspected that the fashionable world would be even less welcoming. No matter; she had no desire to enter that world. In her own country, there was more room to be different.
The major deterrent to returning home was that she had less than five pounds to her name. However, Lord Collingwood would surely lend her the fare to America, plus a little extra to support her until she was established.
His lordship would probably balk at first, worrying whether he was doing his duty by his late brother's only child. Proper English girls would not want to go off on their own; the correct behavior was to live on someone else's charity.
However, Maxie was neither proper nor English, as had been made clear in a hundred subtle and not-so-subtle ways in the four months since she and her father had arrived in Durham. She did not choose to become one of her uncle's dependents.
Even if his lordship was reluctant to see her leave, he couldn't prevent her from doing so. Maxie had just turned twenty-five, and she had been taking care of herself and her father for years. If necessary, she would find work and earn her own passage home.
Her decision crystallized, she rose to her feet with an unladylike athleticism, brushing crushed grass from the skirt of her black dress. The mourning gown was a concession to the sensibilities of her English kinfolk. She herself would have preferred no outward display of her loss. Well, it would not be for much longer.
Half an hour of brisk walking brought her back to the magnificent pile known as Chanleigh Court. Unluckily, as she cut through the gardens, she came upon her two female cousins languidly engaged at the archery butts. Portia, the elder, fired and managed to miss the target entirely from a distance of no more than a dozen paces.
Maxie was about to retreat when Portia glanced up and saw her. "Maxima, how fortunate that you have come by," she said with a note of malice. "Perhaps you can show us how to improve our skills. Or is archery one of the fashionable amusements of which you have been deprived?"
Portia was eighteen, pretty, and petulant. Even at the beginning she had not been friendly to her cousin, but after Maximus Collins's death caused Portia's London debut to be postponed, her attitude had become positively hostile, as if Maxie was personally responsible for the disappointment.
Maxie hesitated, then reluctantly joined her cousins.
"I've done some archery. As with most things, it is practice that refines one's skill."
"Then perhaps you should practice your hairdressing," Portia said with a significant glance.
Maxie had gotten very good at ignoring gibes. "You're right," she said mildly, "my appearance is quite disgraceful. I had hoped to slip into the house unobserved." Even at the best of times her hair was too long, straight, and black for fashion, and at the moment she was windblown and disheveled from her walk.
Portia and Rosalind, by contrast, were as bandbox neat as when they received callers in their mother's parlor. They also towered over the smaller American. Almost everyone did.
Sixteen-year-old Rosalind, who was friendlier than her sister, looked uncomfortable at Portia's rudeness. "Would you like to use my bow, Maxima?" she offered in a timid attempt to warm up the atmosphere.
Maxie accepted the bow and expertly drew it several times to get the feel. Though she had not handled one for some time, her muscles remembered the old skills.
Portia murmured, "I should have remembered that archery was a skill for savages long before it became fashionable."
For some reason, that remark penetrated Maxie's calm as nothing else had. She swung her head toward her cousin with such a flash in her brown eyes that Portia involuntarily stepped backward. Voice dangerously soft, Maxie said, "You're quite right, it is a skill for savages. Move back out of the way."
As her cousins hastily retreated, Maxie scooped up a handful of arrows and stepped back until she was four times as far from the target. She shoved all but one of the arrows point-first into the earth near her right hand, then nocked the remaining shaft.
Drawing the bow, she centered her mind on what it was to be an arrow seeking a target. That had been the first and most important archery lesson that she had ever learned.
Then she released the shaft. An instant later, it buried itself in the exact center of the circle.
While the arrow still quivered in the target, she sent the next shaft on its way. In less than a minute, five arrows were clustered in the bull's-eye so closely that several touched.
Nocking the final arrow, she turned in the direction of her cousins, who watched in paralyzed horror as Maxie let fly. The arrow neatly clipped the lime tree under which the sisters stood. Portia yelped as a severed branchlet fell into her hair, rendering it far less neat than it had been.
Stalking back to her cousins, Maxie returned the bow to Rosalind. To Portia she said, "Since I am a savage, as you are so fond of pointing out, I have a talent for mayhem and violence. You would do well to remember that."
Then Maxie turned on her heel and continued her interrupted path to the house, head high and expression set. It had been foolish to lose her temper with Portia, but there had undeniably been satisfaction in it.
Inside the house, she paused at the end of the hall that passed her uncle's study, wondering if she should visit him now or make herself presentable first. The decision was taken out of her hands when a footman entered the far end of the passage, escorting a burly fellow with a battered face to the door of the master's study. Since neither of the men had seen her, she slipped away to her own bedchamber.
Having an indecently comfortable room all to herself was the single best aspect of life at Chanleigh. Maxie would also miss the luxurious hot baths and the library, which contained over a thousand volumes, most of them sadly unread.
But she would miss little else, particularly not her cousin Portia.
* * *
An hour later Maxie sat on her window seat, her dress brushed and her hair arranged in a demure knot at her nape. Less demurely, her knees were pulled up and her arms looped around them as she gazed out.
Her attention was caught by a figure emerging from the side door. It was the crude fellow who had come to see Uncle Cletus earlier. She wondered what business had brought him to Chanleigh. He seemed an unlikely associate for her uncle.
Dismissing the thought, she checked herself in the mirror. She was much neater than when she had returned from her walk, though her appearance was still hopelessly un-English.
Her expression, however, had returned to its normal determination after two months of drifting. Hoping that her uncle would grant her request for a loan, she squared her shoulders and headed downstairs.
As she raised her hand to knock on her uncle's study door, she heard her Aunt Althea speaking within. She halted and thought a moment before deciding that pleading her case in front of Lady Collingwood would be an advantage. While her ladyship had always been civil to her husband's niece, there had never been a trace of real warmth
or welcome. Surely she would endorse Maxie's request as a way to be rid of an unwelcome guest.
Maxie's hand was poised to knock on the paneled door when Lady Collingwood's sharp voice said, "Was that horrid man worth what you paid him?"
"He was. Simmons may lack refinement, but he handled the unpleasantness about Max very well." After several unintelligible words, her uncle finished, "...certainly can't let it become public knowledge how my brother died."
Maxie froze. Her father had experienced chest spasms in the past, so it had not been a surprise to learn that he had died suddenly in London. His body had been sent back to Durham and he had been buried in the family plot with all due respect. There had been no reason to believe his death was unnatural—until now.
Pulse pounding, she glanced around to ensure that she was unobserved, then pressed her ear to the oak door.
"Trust your brother to cause as much trouble in death as in life. A pity he didn't stay in America," her aunt complained. "The matter of the inheritance is proving to be a great nuisance, and what if Maxima finds out how her father really died?"
"The legacy question is nearly resolved, and she won't learn the truth about her father. I've made sure of that."
"You'd better be right, because if she does find out, the fat will be in the fire," her ladyship said waspishly. "The little heathen isn't stupid."
Voice edged, her husband said, "Would you be so rude about the girl if our daughters were as pretty as she is?"
After a shocked pause, his wife sputtered, "The idea! As if I would want my daughters to look like Maxima. They are well-bred young English ladies, not dusky little savages."
"Well-bred they may be, but no one will notice them if their cousin is in the same room."
"Of course men notice her, just as stallions notice a mare in heat. No real lady wants to draw that kind of attention," Lady Collingwood said viciously. "I'll never understand how your brother could bring himself to marry a Red Indian. That is, if he did marry the creature. The audacity of him, bringing his half breed daughter here!"
"Enough, Althea," her husband snapped. "Max might have been a wastrel, but he was a Collins, and Maxima is his daughter. I have seen no deficiencies in either her manners or her understanding. Indeed, she has been far more of a lady to you than you and Portia have been to her."
"Not an hour since, she threatened Portia with a bow and arrow! I live in terror that she will run mad and murder us in our beds. If you won't get rid of her, I will."
"Just be patient. We can present her in London next spring when she comes out of mourning for her father. Rosalind will be old enough to bring out then, so we can fire off all three girls together. With her looks, Maxima will have no trouble finding a suitable husband."
Maxie's recoil at the thought of a London season was profound, but it paled next to her aunt's reaction. Lady Collingwood gasped. "You can't possibly expect me to present her with our daughters! The idea is unthinkable."
"I can and do expect it. There's nothing unthinkable about presenting cousins together."
"We can't keep her here for a full year," his wife said in a voice that could have scratched glass. "Marcus will return from his Grand Tour soon, and you know how susceptible he is. Are you prepared to risk your son becoming infatuated with his cousin? Would you welcome the little savage as a daughter-in-law?"
After a long silence, her husband said in a shaken voice, "It is not the match I would wish for him."
Lady Collingwood made a reply, her voice blurred as if she were moving away from the door.
It didn't matter, for Maxie had heard more than enough. Feeling nauseated, she retraced the route to her room, forcing herself to walk slowly. After locking her door, she collapsed on her bed and curled into a tight, shuddering ball while she tried to make sense of what she had overheard.
First and foremost was the clear implication that her father's death was not of natural causes. Could he have been killed in an accident, or at the hands of footpads? But in that case, there would be no reason for her uncle to conceal the fact. Could Max have died in a whore's bed? Not only was that unlikely, but such an occurrence was not scandalous enough to require such extraordinary efforts to suppress.
Try as she would, the best interpretation Maxie could find was that someone had murdered her father.
But why would anyone want to kill charming, feckless Max?
Money and passion were the usual reasons for murder. Since Maximus Collins had scarcely had a penny to bless himself with, no one would have murdered him for gain.
Yet lethal jealousy seemed even less probable. Her father had never been a womanizer, and he had been away from England so long that ancient feuds were unlikely to be still smoldering.
Lady Collingwood had mentioned an inheritance. Maximus had been disinherited by his own father, but perhaps he was heir to some distant relative, and he had been killed to prevent his claiming the legacy. If so, was she herself in danger since she was her father's heir? Maxie shook her head in disbelief. Such things belonged only in melodramatic novels, not real life.
Could Max have made money from some mad scheme, then been murdered for it? The night before leaving for London, he had said cheerfully that their financial problems would soon be at an end. His darling daughter could be a lady and have the life and grand husband she deserved. It was not the first time he had made such statements, so Maxie had only laughed and said that she was quite content as she was.
It was hard to imagine any legitimate way that Max could have made a large amount of money. Unfortunately, it was not inconceivable that he had tried an illegitimate method. She had loved her father dearly, but she was aware of his weaknesses. Perhaps he had scandalous information about some long-ago schoolmate and had threatened to reveal it. If so, his intended victim might have decided that it was easier to eliminate a blackmailer than to pay. It wouldn't have been a great risk, for no one would miss an impecunious reprobate.
Except, of course, his daughter.
If her father had tried blackmail, could it have been aimed at his brother? Family secrets would be the easiest to come by.
Maxie's fists clenched so tightly that the nails gouged her palms. She must consider the possibility that Lord Collingwood might have had his own brother killed. Perhaps the villainous-looking man from London was a hired assassin.
Was her uncle capable of such a monstrous crime? She wished that she could dismiss the idea out of hand, but she couldn't. Though her uncle had seemed fond of Max, filial affection might have vanished in the face of attempted blackmail. One thing that Maxie had learned in the last months was that the English had a passion for appearances. Threatening to reveal a particularly ripe scandal could easily have gotten Max killed. Her uncle would have undertaken extreme measures with regret, but she did not doubt that he would do what he thought necessary.
It was all horribly far-fetched, but then, so was murder. She closed her eyes, wondering if she were going mad. She had always had a vivid imagination—lurid, according to her father—and that imagination was running riot. Perhaps there was a simple, noncriminal explanation of what she had overheard.
If so, she could not guess what it was.
The logical thing would be to ask her uncle what he had meant in that damning conversation, but that did not seem like a prudent course. He was unlikely to reveal what he had gone to such trouble to conceal. Worse, if he were guilty of a crime, he might be a threat to her. She didn't think he would want to harm her, but if he had ordered his own brother's death, he was unlikely to have compunctions about doing the same to his niece.
She bit her lip, her mind churning with grief and confusion. Only two things seemed sure: Her father had not died naturally, and she herself was persona non grata in her ancestral home. She had known that Lady Collingwood did not like her, but even so she was appalled by the depth of hostility revealed in that overheard conversation. Heathen... dusky little savage... half-breed.
She must leave Chanleigh this
very night, after the household had retired. But she would not return tamely to Boston—not until she had gone to London and discovered the truth about her father's death.
She sat up, the need to plan steadying her chaotic emotions. She had the address of the inn where Max had been staying, as well as the names of several old friends he had intended to visit. That was enough to begin an investigation.
The only question was how to reach London. While she had a few pounds, it was not enough for a coach ticket, so she would have to walk. The distance was easily two hundred and fifty miles, but that was no great challenge to someone who had spent half her life traveling the back roads of New England.
This time, however, Maxie wouldn't have her father's protection, and traveling alone would be foolish—for a female. She had never deliberately masqueraded as a male, but the rough roads of America had made it advisable to dress as one much of the time. Luckily, she had brought her masculine attire to England. With her breasts bound, her hair under a hat, and a loose shirt, vest, and coat, she would look like a nondescript young boy. And if someone wanted to investigate too closely, she had her knife.
Packing was easy, for she had accumulated very little in a quarter century of living. Besides her male clothing, she would need one female outfit for London and a cloak that could double as a blanket. Her precious packet of American herbs would be useful protection on such a journey. Her mother's silver cross was already around her neck, and her father's watch, her own simple gold earrings, and her harmonica would be safe in an inside coat pocket. Cooking and eating utensils could be purchased from a tinker.
Everything fit easily into her small, battered knapsack. Then it was only a matter of waiting until after the household had gone to bed. Unable to face her aunt and uncle at dinner, she sent down a message that she had a headache and requested a meal in her room.
The hardest task proved to be writing a note. Having been a guest in the Collingwood home for months, it would be very shabby to disappear without a word. Odd how manners remained even when she was deeply suspicious of her host and hostess. More important, she did not want them to realize that she had overheard that cryptic, disquieting conversation.