by Clee, Adele
“Sh-she wants me d-dead.” Scarlett raised a limp hand though lacked the strength to point at Lady Rathbone.
“This is all conjecture.” The matron gave a weak chuckle. “She simply fell when I reached for her arm and then she hit her head on the table. Ask Percival. He will tell you.”
“Was that before or after choking on a fishbone?” Damian said. “You were missing from your booth the night I was shot at Vauxhall. Perhaps you pulled a pistol from your muff intending to kill Lady Steele.”
“Preposterous poppycock!” The matron’s cheeks ballooned.
Lord Rathbone, who had remained subdued throughout the exchange, was instantly overcome with a surge of anger. “You do possess a pocket pistol. You told me you carried it in your reticule for fear of footpads at Vauxhall.”
“Be quiet, Percival! Half the ladies in London carry one when visiting the pleasure gardens.” The matron shuffled backwards, her gaze constantly shifting to the door. “Possessing such a weapon is not proof of guilt but merely common sense.”
With his injured arm aching from holding Scarlett for so long, Damian turned to Alcock. “Take your mistress to the carriage. I shall join you the moment the constable arrives.”
“The constable?” Lady Rathbone scoffed. “He will believe a respected member of the ton over a good-for-nothing bachelor’s son. Now stand aside. I refuse to listen to these ridiculous tales a moment longer.”
“What a shame, as this good-for-nothing bachelor’s son won’t rest until every member of the nobility knows of your depravity. Indeed, the Marquis of Blackbeck seemed most interested in hearing my theory when he confirmed you were mother to Christopher Rathbone. Imagine his shock when I tell him the truth about why I asked.”
Silence.
The deafening sound filled the room. The striking absence of noise threatened like an invisible spectre.
For a moment Lady Rathbone appeared defeated. Years of using devious methods to hide the truth had come to naught. But then the matron’s loud gasp tore through the room. Her eyes turned dangerously wild, yet there was a distance there as if she had finally sunk to the dark depths of her depravity.
“You can’t tell the marquis!” The matron’s high-pitched screech caught them all by surprise. Her body shook with barely contained rage. “You will tell no one, do you hear?”
Damian shook his head. “It is too late for negotiations.”
The matron had made the mistake of not approaching her granddaughter years ago. Scarlett had a good, kind heart, and would have embraced the Rathbones had they acted honourably.
“It is never too late.” Lady Rathbone cast a menacing grin. “Pariah! I’ll not be beaten by a filthy mongrel.”
In a sudden and violent attack, the matron raced to the table, grabbed the carving knife from the silver platter and lunged at Damian.
With a need to protect the woman in his arms, Damian swung around and braced himself for a slash across the back.
Alcock charged forward, but Lady Rathbone stabbed at the coachwoman like a possessed banshee. Alcock ducked the first swipe, but in the tight space struggled to maintain a defensive position.
Hell. Damian felt helpless to act.
A scuffle broke out.
Lord Rathbone joined the affray.
Confusion descended.
He protected his grandmother from Alcock’s punch but then tried hard to wrestle the knife from the woman’s grasp.
“Leave this to me!” Lord Rathbone cried, but Lady Rathbone cared nothing for her own kin. A swipe to the handsome lord’s cheek left a trail of blood. “Good God, have you lost your mind?” He clutched his face, seemed somewhat disorientated.
“I have the constable, my—” Osmond almost fainted in shock upon witnessing his mistress wielding the blade like a crazed lunatic.
The constable’s mouth dropped open. “Throw the knife to the floor, my lady.” He hovered on the threshold, reluctant to enter.
Deranged and consumed with madness, the matron ignored the constable’s repeated plea.
“There’s no option left but to disarm her, Alcock,” Damian said. “Imagine you’re back in the fighting pits in Whitechapel.”
Alcock nodded. She firmed her jaw and snarled, shuffled her feet, ducking and dodging each slash and slice. One timely hit to the stomach saw the matron fall forward. Alcock grabbed Lady Rathbone’s wrist and twisted until the woman yelped in pain.
The knife fell to the floor.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
But the chaos did not end there.
The constable spent the next ten minutes calming the matron, although she tried to lunge from the chair numerous times when Damian revealed the facts of the story.
Bedlam ensued when Lord Rathbone summoned his carriage to escort his grandmother and the constable to the magistrate. Reluctantly, the lord agreed that for everyone’s safety, the matron should wear shackles.
Damian would have to wait until morning to explain his version of events to the magistrate. Scarlett was his priority, and he would send for Dr Redman to come to Bruton Street and inspect the patient posthaste.
“Lucky you let me ride atop your coach, sir, else that madwoman might have carved you up like a hock of beef,” Alcock said, opening the carriage door and helping Damian to settle Scarlett onto the seat. “Instead of pickin’ your teeth out the gutter, you might have been pickin’ your fingers.”
For the first time tonight, Damian forced a weak smile. “Indeed, a man might overlook your stubborn insolence when you’re so skilled with your fists.”
“Seems you and Lady Steele are of a similar mind.” Alcock gave a curt nod. Once Damian had settled into the seat, she closed the door and climbed atop the box.
When the carriage jerked forward, Damian drew Scarlett onto his lap and cradled her head on his shoulder. “You’re safe now, love,” he said in a soft, gentle voice that had no place in a rogue’s repartee.
Scarlett’s eyes flickered open. “Safe,” she repeated, raising a limp hand to cup his cheek. “I—I always feel safe with you.”
Chapter Twenty
It was as if someone had taken an axe to Scarlett’s head and tried to cleave it in two. The thud drew every muscle in her body taut. Her brows furrowed in pain. The pounding in her temple sent sharp shocks down to her jaw. Having squeezed her eyes shut to ease the blinding ache, it took effort to prise them apart.
Daylight danced around the gaps in the drawn curtains. The hustle and bustle of city life echoed beyond the room—the clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of carts, the energetic thrum of life.
Thank the Lord she was alive, still breathing.
There had been a moment in Lady Rathbone’s dining room when she feared she would never see the light of day again. How had the matron duped her so easily? When had the weak, docile woman turned into a crazed criminal?
Scarlett knew the answer.
For four years, Lady Rathbone had known her son’s secret. Ever since Lord Steele’s death, she had been a kind and supportive friend. But behind the screen of sincerity, the matron had despised Scarlett to the core of her being.
Jack Jewell was not her father.
The sudden thought brought a different pain.
It was the opposite of emptiness. Losing her parents hung like a heavy, heavy weight in her heart. She would never get the opportunity to ask questions, never be able to wrap her arms around them and thank them for taking care of her when her real father shirked his responsibilities.
Heavens, and to think she was related to Lady Rathbone.
Disbelief, along with a hundred unanswerable questions pounded in her head, too.
“Dr Redman advises complete rest for the next few days.” The rich, masculine voice drifted across the room. “He said you may experience slight memory loss. May have a megrim for a week or more.”
Scarlett’s gaze followed the voice to the corner of the room, to where she had sat while waiting for Wycliff to recover from his gunshot w
ound. Her heart lurched at the sight of the handsome gentleman sitting in the chair. He wore the same dark blue coat as he did the day she met him in the tavern. The coat clung to the bulging muscles in his arms, complemented the Mediterranean look of his dark hair and sultry eyes. He’d teamed it with a black cravat and breeches, the material of which clung to his powerful thighs.
“If there is one thing Blake can teach us about life, it is its fragility.” Wycliff gestured to the book in his hand. “That said, I experienced it firsthand last night.”
“I can scarce remember much after the fall.” Whenever she had found the strength to open her eyes, she was in his arms.
“Please tell me you remember everything until the point you hit your head on the table.” His tone conveyed a sense of trepidation. “Tell me everything in this room is familiar to you.”
Did he fear she wouldn’t remember him?
Did he think she would forget those glorious times when he entered her body and made her whole again?
“Of course I remember.” She remembered she loved him. Loved him more than she had dared admit to herself. “And this room holds many fond memories.” Beautiful memories.
His smile deepened.
“Was it you or Dr Redman who stripped off my clothes and left me in a chemise?”
“Do you honestly think I would let another man put his hands on you?”
The warm feeling returned to her chest. Despite her pounding head, she wanted this man to take her in his arms and make all her troubles fade away.
“Dr Redman left a tincture for the megrim on the night table,” Wycliff continued, “and laudanum should you have trouble sleeping.”
Scarlett glanced at the medicine on the table, but her gaze fell to the pretty vinaigrette bottle with a painted scene of a gentleman pushing a lady on a garden swing.
“And the vinaigrette?”
“Contains an aromatic vinegar made by my housekeeper. The bottle belonged to my mother. She kept it at her bedside, and I would often stare at the painted figures and invent stories. It belongs to you now.”
“To me?”
“A gift.”
“You seem to make a habit of giving me gifts that represent treasured memories.” She would never forget the day he gave her his mother’s precious cross.
He fell silent though she could feel the contained emotion bursting to break free.
“Is there a reason you’re sitting so far away?” She wanted him to sit next to her, to touch her hand, stroke her brow, kiss her in the way that spoke of something more profound than lust.
“The doctor assured me you need rest. As a man with a raging appetite for you, I thought it best to keep my distance.”
“After the terrible things I learnt last night—”
“Two nights ago. You slept the whole day yesterday.”
The whole day?
And still her head throbbed.
“After the terrible things I learnt, perhaps I want to feel close to you.”
“What we want and what is advisable are two different things. I’ll not risk losing you just to satisfy a desire.”
Her light laugh triggered the thumping ache, but she was determined in her course. “I am asking you to sit on the bed, not rip off my chemise with your teeth.”
“Must you rouse lascivious images in my head?” Wycliff placed the book on the table and came to sit beside her on the bed.
She considered his impeccable attire. “Are you going out?”
He inclined his head. “I intend to call on the marquis. Twenty-six years’ worth of questions insist on having a voice.”
They were similar in that regard, although she had twenty-three years’ worth of questions that would forever remain unanswered.
“It’s not too late for you. The only person who can shed light on your father’s relationship with your mother still lives. Go to the marquis. Demand the truth.” She hoped it might ease his pain, hoped they both learnt to accept they were powerless to change the past.
Wycliff captured her hand and stroked it tenderly. “I met Lord Rathbone at a coffeehouse this morning. It might relieve you—it might sadden you—to know that Lady Rathbone took an overdose of laudanum last night, coupled with a quart of brandy.”
“An overdose? Is she alive?”
Wycliff pursed his lips and shook his head. He explained about the receipts found in the letter case, about the villain Lady Rathbone hired, about the matron taking a pistol to Vauxhall.
“The magistrate who presided over the meeting concluded that there was insufficient evidence to prosecute. No one can attest to the true meaning of the word cargo. The mumbled words of a dying man on his deathbed are often inadmissible. And I could hardly mention that the man guilty of the crimes against you is at the bottom of the Thames.”
“So you couldn’t produce the letter offering payment in exchange for my life?”
“Not without implicating Flannery. Besides, the letter bears no name, signature or seal. No one can verify the identity of the sender. And the magistrate will not commit a member of the aristocracy to trial without substantial evidence.”
With her mental faculties weaker than usual, Scarlett found it hard to absorb the information. “Did the constable not witness her wielding a blade?”
“The magistrate suggested time in an institution, one capable of treating female hysteria.”
“It beggars belief that she may have been free to wreak havoc again.” Scarlett shuddered at the thought. “Had a maid behaved so abominably, she would have swung by the neck from the gallows.”
“Lord Rathbone believes that the scandal, the stain on her name, is the reason she downed two bottles of laudanum.”
Perhaps some people might clap their hands in joy or relief upon hearing the news. But how could she be happy knowing someone’s life meant less to them than their reputation?
“I doubt the coroner will rule suicide,” she said, “not for someone of Lady Rathbone’s standing.” The same rules that applied to Jack Jewell did not apply to the aristocracy.
“The coroner concluded the matter rather quickly. As expected, he cited an unstable mind. The most important thing for the Crown is that a peer receives his inheritance.”
Oh, the hypocrisy of society left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Lord Rathbone assures me he knew nothing of the plot against you. Since the death of Lord Steele, he has tried to persuade his grandmother that his marriage to you would prevent you from revealing the truth.”
A shiver ran the length of Scarlett’s spine as it occurred to her that Lady Rathbone was her grandmother, too. Still, after everything she had learnt, doubt flared.
“Are you certain this isn’t all a terrible mistake?” She would rather have the father who never visited than the one who gave her away.
Wycliff’s mouth twisted into a grim line. “Lord Rathbone travelled to Paris and bore witness to the confession. He explained how they used the information to find you.” Wycliff exhaled a weary sigh. “It would serve Rathbone better if it were a lie, which is why I believe it’s the truth.”
A pulsing pain in her temple saw her press her fingers there and massage the tender spot. Wycliff shifted, and she feared he would insist on leaving the room to let her rest.
“So how did Lady Rathbone find me?” she said, hoping conversation would keep him at her bedside.
Wycliff pushed his hand through his mop of dark hair. “Lord Rathbone said his grandmother visited Jack Jewell and demanded to know the truth. He refused to reveal the information and so she hired an enquiry agent to investigate.”
“When was this?”
“Almost four years ago. A month before your father’s death.”
A chilling thought settled in her mind. “The coroner recorded my father’s death as suicide. Perhaps someone else pulled the trigger.”
“Or perhaps your father believed you were safer if he was dead. He knew Mr Flannery would take care of you. The Irishman knows enough crimi
nals in the rookeries to ensure no one would dare hurt you.” Wycliff shrugged. “Either way, you will never know for sure.”
Scarlett didn’t want to think that someone had murdered her father so callously. She would rather think that he made the ultimate sacrifice to protect his daughter. Tears sprang to her eyes. She had sat at the window week after week and cursed him for not loving her.
“The enquiry agent kept a watch on your father’s premises,” Wycliff continued. “At some point after leaving the seminary you went home.”
It had always been her intention to plead with her father, to drop to her knees and beg him to let her remain at The Jewell. “When I got there, the doors and windows were boarded. A neighbour told me what had happened and took me in for the night. I didn’t know what else to do as my father had never mentioned Mr Flannery. His neighbour’s daughter was an actress and found me work on the stage, a room to rent in Covent Garden.”
“And you remained there until you married Steele.” His tone turned frosty.
It was time she made him see her reasoning, the foolish thoughts that seemed so logical at the time, the error of her judgement.
“Marrying Steele seemed like the simple solution. I knew it was only a matter of time before some drunken buck followed me home and forced his advances.” Wycliff didn’t know what it was like to have men grope you when all you wanted was to earn an honest living. “Letters arrived, threatening letters—”
“You should have come to me.”
“Yes, I should have, but you were not offering marriage, security, a way out from the pit of despair.” He might have offered her another role, one equally precarious. “The night Steele saved me from the attack in the alley, I would have done anything for a moment’s peace.”
Silence descended.
It was as if those memories came alive. The air thrummed with the same tension.
“Things happened that way for a reason,” Wycliff eventually said in a melancholic tone.
She liked to think that, too.
“In some twisted way, perhaps marrying Steele saved your life,” he added.
“Saved me? How?”