“Because he is in England, girl, and Malcolm was afraid of what would happen between you and Wingate. By the time your father could have been summoned and traveled here…good heavens!…you could have almost borne the man a child!”

His exaggeration made her cringe inwardly, and she was the one now who twisted her hands in dismay. “So Malcolm hired you to perform for me.”

Edward Gaitling seemed unable to manage more than a brief, hesitant glance in her direction. “I guess…that’s the way it happened.”

“You seem particularly loyal to Malcolm,” she observed distantly. “How long have you known him?”

Edward tossed down another swallow, and as he lowered his glass, he gripped it between both hands. “I’ve known him for a long time, I guess.”

“Before we were married?”

“I…ah…I’ve been away…for a long time,” he answered lamely.

“Then you weren’t informed of the wedding?”

“No…I wasn’t…I can’t tell you anything about that.”

“I remember…part of it,” she said.

Edward’s head snapped up. “Oh? But I thought you couldn’t…remember very well.”

A wry smile touched her lips. “I told you…it’s beginning to come back.”

A worried frown flitted across his brow before he hurriedly dropped his gaze. “Malcolm will be happy to hear that.”

“I really don’t see why.”

“Eh?” He peered at her in confusion.

“Even if I were to regain all my memory, it would not change things between us. I don’t know exactly why I married him…but whatever was there between us is there no longer.”

Edward’s shoulders sagged, and he heaved a laborious sigh. “Poor Malcolm. He does love you, you know.”

“I’m not at all sure about that, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Will you be going back to Natchez with that Wingate fellow?”

“I don’t see why you need to know my plans.” Lenore released her breath haltingly. “I’d like you to leave the house as soon as you can. There’s no further reason for you to stay.”

Edward Gaitling looked at her in surprise, then his wonder ebbed into a disconcerted frown. Giving a reluctant nod, he set down his glass and moved to the door. He paused another long space to gaze back at her, then slowly made his way from the room. Lenore could hear his footsteps on the stairs, ascending at the same lagging pace, and in the still house, she heard the closing of his door a few, short moments later.

The house grew quiet and still, and in the loneliness of the parlor Lenore lifted her gaze to the portrait, wondering about the man who was really her father. If she could correctly discern anything from the glimpses she had of him in her memory, he was a man who really loved his daughters. Ashton would be like that, she thought with a wistful smile. He would be a good father. He loved so well. Indeed, she wondered why her sister had not somehow fought to live and claim the happiness he could have given her.

Lenore shook her head, trying to reject the thoughts that came to plague her, but they persisted, and she had to yield her mind to their presence. Had she a right to take her sister’s place? To seize upon Ashton’s devotion for another and selfishly claim it for herself? He had assured her that he would love her whether she was Lierin or Lenore, but was it true? With his dream swept away by tragedy, had he been too eager to grasp at whatever facsimile became available? And was she taking advantage of his love for her sister to fill an emptiness within herself?

She groaned inwardly as a weighty guilt came down upon her. Edward Gaitling had put a name to her. A kept woman! The mistress of her sister’s husband! Adulteress!

A depressing coldness clamped its clammy hands upon her as the heavy lump in the pit of her stomach grew weightier. She had begun to sense that the white-haired man was not her father, and with the suspicion, a hope that she might not be Lenore had begun to form. Still, if she had recognized the facts as being what they were, she would have accepted the fleeting memories of her marriage to Malcolm as truth. The blue gown…the wedding guests…the trunk…

Lenore lifted her head, feeling a burning need to see what the chest contained. She set herself to finding a chisel and hammer and, accomplishing that feat, retrieved the landscape and climbed once more to the attic room. Now in the late afternoon the heat in the closed space was nearly unbearable, but she worked at the lock with a fierce purposefulness, disregarding the mugginess and the gown that began to cling cloyingly close to her dampened skin. Finally, the flap broke free, and she quickly lifted the top. An empty tray met her gaze, and a quick flash of a memory filled it with neatly arranged possessions. In her mind she could visualize her gowns packed beneath the wooden compartment. Almost eagerly she lifted the tray and set it aside. There the images halted…abruptly. Nothing but large stones filled the bottom. She stared down at them, suddenly unsure of herself and more than slightly puzzled. She bent to move one aside, then a strange, sickly sweet odor touched her nostrils, reminding her of something spoiled. Warily she turned her head, and her eyes slowly widened as they settled on the dark reddish brown stains smeared across the inner lining.

With a gasp Lenore stumbled back, hitting her head sharply on a low rafter, and was brought up short by the confining timbers. Her stomach heaved, and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Averting her face to deny any chance glimpse of what she had just seen, she pressed her brow against the slanting wooden brace. A strange creepiness made her skin crawl, and while her heart quivered, a frosty chill shivered up her spine. Her mind began to tumble in a dizzying gyre, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to forbid any intrusion of the nightmare that threatened.

“No, no,” she moaned miserably as once more the poker was lifted and brought down with murderous intent. She cowered, wanting to see nothing more of it, but the horror was relentless and seeped into her brain until all she saw was…blood! Her mind screamed at the terror she had witnessed, and then the tall, broad-shouldered form came slowly around with a dark cloak swirling about it. The face was enraged, the eyes flaring, the mouth snarling, and the visage was one she knew!

“Malcolm!” she gasped, flinging her eyes wide.

“You bitch!” his voice barked from the stairwell, and though she whirled to flee, he was there immediately behind her, grabbing her arm in a cruel, unrelenting vise and ensnaring the heavy chignon at her nape. He shook her head until her vision blurred, and then he twisted her head around until she thought her neck would snap. A sharp pain shot through her head at his abuse, but she stiffened her jaw, refusing to whine or mewl for mercy.

“You killed him!” she accused through gritted teeth. “You murdered him! And you stuffed his body in my trunk so you could get rid of it.”

“You shouldn’t have left here with him,” he snarled close to her ear. “You should never have listened to him! I was waiting for you downstairs…and I waited…and waited. It was time for us to go aboard the ship. We were to sail to Europe and abroad, but still you didn’t come down. Then the coachman came running in and said the carriage had been stolen by someone who had hit him over the head, and when I ran upstairs, I couldn’t find you.”

“But how did you know where I had gone?”

Malcolm laughed without humor. “The note the bastard wrote to you…you left it on your dressing table. Then I knew who had been here and where he had taken you…to Natchez to see his sister…to provide you proof of what he said…and to secure her release with your testimony.” His short, snorting chuckle came in derision. “Sarah! Another bitch! She didn’t trust me either…but she loved me. You lust after that devil, Wingate.”

“Bigamist!” The tendons in her throat tensed into tight cords as she tried to pull her hair free from his grasp, but he yanked her head back upon his shoulder and, slipping an arm about her throat, applied pressure until she was forced to cease her struggles or be choked to death. Her outrage was not so easily subdued. “Murderer!”

Forcing her face around with his wrist, Malcolm stared down into the blazing emerald eyes and smirked. “You needn’t be jealous, my pet. I took care of her. She’s naught but ashes now.”

“You set fire to the madhouse?!” Lenore questioned, horrified at the extent he would go to achieve his own ends.

“I’m very good at building fires, my dear,” he boasted. “I take great pleasure in doing it well. Whenever I’ve paid others to do a like service, they have failed me. Wingate’s warehouses, for instance. A clever ploy to get him away from Belle Chêne so you could be pressed to do the honorable thing, but those sheds were supposed to burn…all of them, and the blame was to be cast on Horace Titch.”

The wall was slowly crumbling, and the horror was beginning to spill through the widening fissures. “You had Sarah committed after we met, while her brother was still abroad and I was in England. I don’t know what evil quirk of your mind made you choose Natchez…or why you didn’t kill her.”

“I had gained the sympathy of the family attorneys with all the distress I had to go through having to commit her. It would have been foolish to arouse their suspicions, especially when any investigation into the accident that killed her father would have implicated me. Since the lawyers were willing to believe her brother would never return, they let me have everything I needed. It was disappointing to learn how quickly the family’s wealth could be exhausted. I had just seized upon another outlet when her brother came…and took you away.”

“We had only arrived in Natchez and were making plans to visit Sarah the next day. How did you manage to arrange everything so quickly?”