Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  Maybe Grace was there, asking Uncle Cyril for assistance with the child. That made sense. And Aunt Mary might be out with the others—they might even have gone for a stroll in Hyde Park to criticize the ostentatious fashions worn by the ladies and ogle the dandies driving by in sporting vehicles.

  That had to be the answer. Her breathing eased. Dorothy smiled. How easy it was to panic over nothing but her own ludicrous fears, heightened by the nervousness of a maid.

  “Uncle Cyril?” she called as she walked around to the hallway stretching past the staircase toward the rear of the townhouse. “Are you there?”

  The double doors to the library were open a crack, but no one answered her. She walked into the huge room, her gaze searching the shadows. There were several groups of low tables and upholstered chairs, but the room appeared to be empty. Her uncle’s large desk was situated by the French doors at the rear of the room, and there was no sign of him there. She almost turned to go when she noticed a stark tableau of pale, startled faces staring at her from the shadowy corner near the wall directly to her left.

  “Uncle Cyril?” Dorothy took a step toward them, confused. Her glance caught her sister’s gaze. “Grace?”

  Grace’s eyes widened with panic before she looked back at their uncle, standing beyond her. Her hand rested on the shoulder of a child who appeared to be trying to edge behind Grace.

  And there was something about the child, perhaps the frail curve of her neck and shoulders and the way she stood, that made Dorothy sure that the child was a little girl.

  The urchin still wore the tattered blue skirt wrapped around her waist, above a pair of baggy brown trousers. The child turned to stare at Dorothy. Her odd eyes were huge, staring out of a face that looked entirely bloodless beneath the grime smudging her cheeks and nose. The bluish cast to her lips emphasized her pallor. In silence the child’s grubby hand reached up and grasped Grace’s sash. The child’s delicate knuckles turned white as she pulled Grace even closer to her.

  All the small details caught Dorothy’s attention. She shook her head, frowned, and took another step forward. “What is wrong?” she asked, edging around a blue brocade chair.

  “Dorothy, or I should say, Lady Arundell, do come in,” Uncle Cyril said. His thin lips twisted into a smile that looked more like a sick grimace. “Join us.”

  “No, Dorothy!” Grace exclaimed in a strangled voice. Her arm flashed around the child and yanked her behind her as she partially turned toward Dorothy. “Run!”

  Dorothy picked up her skirts and twirled, only to knock into the blue chair.

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid, my dear,” Uncle Cyril said. He sounded appallingly cheerful. “Come, Lady Arundell. Come and join us.”

  When Dorothy glanced over her shoulder, she realized that Grace and the child had moved sufficiently to reveal Uncle Cyril more fully. He held a dueling pistol in his right hand, its long barrel pointed at Grace’s heart.

  “I am so pleased to see you, Lady Arundell. Though I would have been more pleased for none of this to have happened. You should not have said yes, but I suppose one must accept matters as they stand,” Uncle Cyril said. Another rictus of a smile twisted his features into a grotesque mask. “You must know I never wished to harm you—in fact, I wished for something quite different. However, we shall make do. Grace, be a good girl and open that door on your left.” He didn’t make the mistake of gesturing with his weapon—he kept his gaze and gun fixed steadily on Grace.

  With an agonized glance at Dorothy, Grace edged over and twisted a brass doorknob. She blinked several times and bit her plump, lower lip.

  Oh, no—don’t, Dorothy silently begged. Those rapid blinks meant Grace was going to tell a lie. If she said something foolish and made Uncle Cyril angry, Dorothy had no doubt he would simply shoot her where she stood.

  “I can’t. It’s locked,” Grace said.

  “Uncle Cyril.” Dorothy stepped closer. “Please—”

  In a sudden, vicious movement, Uncle Cyril stepped forward and whipped the butt of his pistol against the child’s head. The girl crumpled at Grace’s feet. Grace stood there, face gray and mouth open in appalled shock.

  “Open the door. Pick her up. Go inside,” Uncle Cyril ordered.

  He clearly had no intention of being fooled into checking the lock or discussing anything with them at all.

  Trembling, Dorothy knelt and briefly held her hand over the child’s nose and mouth. A puff of moist, warm air brushed over her fingers. At least the urchin was still alive. She gently pulled the girl’s arm over her shoulder, ignoring the unappetizing odors of unwashed skin, animal waste, and rotting food clinging to the child’s filthy clothing.

  When she looked up, Grace had the door open. The room beyond was dark.

  “It is small. However, you will not be there for long. It will all be over soon.” He stepped closer to nudge the child with the toe of his shoe. “Get inside.” His eyes glittered. “There is no point in screaming—the walls are thick. No one comes in here except me. Content yourselves to know that drowning is said to be an easy death, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. You shall all be well-weighted when you go into the water. They’ve left an abundance of rocks and construction materials at the new bridge.” He forced them into the darkness. “It won’t be long, my dears, and your troubles will soon be over.” His gaze lingered on Dorothy. “I really am sorry, Lady Arundell.”

  Glancing at him with distaste, Dorothy struggled with the child, trying to edge her through the door.

  Her delay changed his professed sorrow to aggravation, and he gave her a strong shove.

  Unbalanced by the weight of the child, Dorothy fell into her sister. The room—closet, really—was so small that the three of them tumbled against the far wall before they could right themselves.

  The door slammed behind them. Dorothy heard the sound of a key clicking in the lock. Smothered by darkness, Dorothy released the girl and turned, her hands touching the walls on both sides. The only light was a thin line of pale gray streaming beneath the door and a fainter one filtering through the lock of the door. She leaned a shoulder against one wall before she slid down to the floor. There was barely enough room for them to sit with the child in Dorothy’s lap.

  “What happened?” she asked Grace, trying not to panic as she eyed the door.

  Grace sniffed, choking back a sob. “It’s my fault—I should have left well enough alone. That’s what Martha always used to say, is it not? And she was right, as she always is. I should never have gone to Mr. Cavell’s shop. That poor girl—she would have been better off if I left her, stealing food from Mrs. Cavell. Oh, why did I have to interfere? Why?!”

  “It is not your fault, dearest,” Dorothy said, awkwardly trying to reassure her sister in the dark. After tapping her nose and cheek, she finally found what she thought was Grace’s shoulder. She gave it a small squeeze. “Clearly, Uncle Cyril is quite mad.”

  “And I dragged both you and this poor child here!”

  “Well, you didn’t drag me here, I dragged myself. So you can’t take all the blame. Never mind, though. We shall escape, one way or the other.”

  “How? What if Aunt Mary is helping him? Perhaps the entire family is mad!” Grace’s voice rose shrilly.

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they are, but I shouldn’t let it worry me. We just need to open this door before he returns. There is no doubt that he will wait until it is dark. Though even then, how he proposes to throw three people into the Thames without anyone noticing anything peculiar is beyond me,” Dorothy said bracingly. “Here, will you take her?” She shifted the child onto Grace’s lap. “I want to check the lock.”

  “What if he’s out there?”

  “What if he is?” Dorothy shrugged, groping in the darkness for the brass knob. “The element of surprise works both ways.”

  “He might shoot you!”

  “Well, if he does, you must run as fast as you can and fetch the Watch. It shall take
him a minute or more to reload his pistol, and you can use that to your advantage.”

  “I can’t leave you—I will not!”

  “Don’t be a dolt, dearest. Of course you will. Now be quiet, will you?” She felt the top of her head, her fingertips searching for a particular pin—the one that was currently digging into her scalp.

  She and her sister both had hairpins keeping their hair neatly coiled on their heads, so if she ruined one pin, they had many more. She removed the most annoying pin and tilted her head. Her hair remained firmly in place. Not that it mattered, but it would be nice if, when the authorities arrived, the only person who looked like a lunatic, with goggling eyes and wild hair, was her uncle.

  As she twisted the flimsy pin in the lock, she reflected that the longer pin which had held her bonnet in place might be useful, as well. Although she hadn’t thought about it in time to prevent their confinement, she could also use one as a weapon when Uncle Cyril returned. She read a dreadful story once where a madwoman had killed her husband by stabbing a hat pin into the nape of his neck.

  Not that she wished to emulate her, but it remained a possibility.

  They were far from dead yet. There was still hope. At least she prayed there was as she futilely jabbed and jiggled her hairpin in the recalcitrant lock.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I am sorry, my lord, but I can’t let you in!” the thin, little maid exclaimed, standing behind the heavy front door and peering at him around the edge.

  He thrust his booted foot in the crack. “Mr. Polkinghorne will see me. I am sure of it.”

  “But he won’t, my lord! They’re at supper—all of them—and not to be disturbed.” She threw her paltry weight against the door to shut it. “I must go! They’ll be expecting their pudding. Please, my lord!”

  Dinner? He must have guessed incorrectly, after all. If Polkinghorne was sitting down to supper, it was unlikely that he was a murderer, planning on making Cynthia’s death final this time, right after he had his brandy and cigar.

  The door pressed against his foot, but he barely felt it. Should he join Gaunt at Eburne’s flat instead? He glanced at the carriage waiting for him in the street.

  No. He was here. He would speak to Polkinghorne and determine if Miss Grace Stainton had returned here, or if he knew where she’d gone.

  “I fear that does not please me in the least. Show me into the library. I shall wait there until Mr. Polkinghorne has had his pudding.” He pushed the door open, forcing the maid back into the hallway.

  Her gaze darted about, her face pale, and her nervous hands continually smoothing over the front of her apron. “But he’s not to be disturbed, my lord. He said so before supper. He told me he was not to be bothered this evening. He has business to attend to. Urgent business.”

  “Business?” Marcus asked sharply.

  “Business.” She nodded. “That’s what he said, my lord. Urgent business. He left papers on his desk in the library and locked the door so as not to have them disturbed. I expect it was something he didn’t want Mrs. Polkinghorne to see.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide in her pale face. Clearly, she’d said more than she ought to have done.

  “Never mind. I will wait in the drawing room, instead.” He strode in the direction of the grand staircase. He’d have preferred to simply walk into the dining room, but even his sense of urgency kept him from taking that drastic step. He’d look like a fool if he were wrong. “Tell Mr. Polkinghorne that I await him.”

  “But I…” She stared at him, aghast. Her gaze drifted toward the elaborately carved double doors that presumably led to the dining room.

  He stopped with one foot on the lowest stair. “Is Miss Grace Stainton at supper as well?”

  “Miss Grace?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Miss Grace.”

  “No—same as I told Miss Stainton.” She flushed.

  “Told Miss Stainton?” Enlightenment flashed. The third sister must have come for a visit.

  The maid nodded.

  “Where is she? Is she at supper with the Polkinghornes?”

  “No, my lord. I haven’t seen her—she must have left.”

  Marcus studied the maid. Something was not quite right. If the third sister had come to visit, why had she left instead of joining her aunt and uncle for dinner?

  “To which Miss Stainton are you referring, miss?” he asked gently.

  “Miss Dorothy—the one as is your wife now—Lady Arundell, my lord.” Elsa bobbed a quick curtsey, her gaze drifting to the dining room door again.

  His wife? Guilt bit him between the shoulder blades like a hungry horsefly. He shouldn’t have left her so abruptly. What must she think? Married and deserted in one day… He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up at the first floor landing. What was she doing here? Had she forgotten something? Or worse, was she lonely and regretting their union?

  “And she left?” he asked.

  “She must have—she’s not here. Nor her sister, neither.”

  A door rattled further down the hallway on his right. The library door. He caught the maid’s startled glance.

  Just then, the dining room doors flew open.

  “Elsa! What are you doing out here?” Mrs. Polkinghorne stood in the doorway.

  The maid’s frightened glance flicked to Marcus and then back to her mistress. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Polkinghorne. I heard the door.”

  Following the girl’s gaze, Mrs. Polkinghorne’s eyes widened. “My lord! Why are you here? Is something amiss?”

  “Mary! Where is that blasted girl? What are you doing there?” Polkinghorne appeared next to his wife.

  His mouth thinned, and he started to speak, only to notice Marcus. “My lord!” His startled exclamation echoed his wife’s words. He recovered his wits quickly. “Elsa, why did you not inform us that Lord Arundell had arrived?”

  Elsa’s mouth dropped open. “You weren’t to be disturbed—you said—”

  “Yes, I know what I said.” Polkinghorne chuckled. “Come in, my lord. Perhaps you would care to join us?”

  “Thank you, but I have already eaten.” Marcus stepped away from the staircase and moved toward the dining room. “Perhaps I may speak with you after you finish your supper?”

  “Oh, we have quite finished already,” Polkinghorne said as he joined him.

  “But the pudding…” Mrs. Polkinghorne complained, the corners of her mouth drooping. She gazed into the dining room over her shoulder.

  Clearly, she objected to missing her favorite part of the meal.

  “Would you care to join me in the…” Ignoring his wife, Polkinghorne took a step toward the hallway leading to the library and then stopped abruptly. His eyes flickered before he smiled and held out his arm, gesturing to the staircase. “We shall be more comfortable in the drawing room, I believe. Elsa, bring us a tray with brandy and a few slices of cake. Shall we, my lord?”

  Marcus turned.

  A sudden clatter of running feet echoed down the marble hallway from the direction of the library.

  Dorothy slid to a halt, her hand shooting out to clutch the newel post and keep from falling. Another woman—Grace—bumped into her from behind.

  “Marcus!” Dorothy gasped.

  “Dorothy—what—” He broke off. A movement made him step in front of her and glance over his shoulder.

  Face set in a gray mask, Polkinghorne faced them, a dueling pistol gripped in his hand. “How unfortunate,” he murmured. “And needless. This should never have happened. Particularly not to you, my dearest Dorothy.” His eyes glimmered with madness.

  “Dorothy!” Mrs. Polkinghorne shrieked, her hands fisting at her sides. “This is all her fault! You think of nothing else—no one else! Just her…” A sharp sob broke her voice, and she covered her face with her hands.

  “Put that thing down,” Marcus ordered, ensuring that he was between Polkinghorne and the women. The final pieces of the sad puzzle fell into place. “What do you hope to accomplish? You ha
ve but one shot.”

  “That is all I require.” His gaze traveled beyond Marcus’s shoulder, back to Marcus, and then to his wife.”

  “Cyril!” Mrs. Polkinghorne exclaimed, lifting her head. “You cannot be so foolish—what are you doing?”

  “Be quiet, woman! Must you always be so useless?” A fierce concentration wrinkled Polkinghorne’s brow. He looked at his wife, contempt clear in his eyes. “A useless old hag. At least Dorothy proved sensible, despite her youth. And she’s still beautiful. Well, a wife cannot testify, Mary. One bullet—for you, my lord—and I can still… Yes. I can still make a clean sweep. No mistakes this time.”

  Dorothy gripped Marcus’s sleeve and peered around his shoulder. “You cannot do it, Uncle Cyril. If you shoot Lord Arundell, two of us remain, and you cannot fight all of us.”

  “She’s right, Polkinghorne.” Marcus stretched out his arm to push Dorothy behind him. She may not have realized it, but her uncle had just revealed why he had wanted Marcus to marry Cecilia instead of Dorothy. Polkinghorne clearly had designs on his niece. The notion of him attempting to seduce Dorothy and make her his mistress made Marcus clench his jaw. He forced his voice to stay calm when he held out his left hand. “Give me the pistol. Let us discuss this like intelligent men—”

  “Intelligent men?” Polkinghorne snorted. His gaze grew wilder, flicking from one person to the next, a pale ring forming around his thin mouth with the dawning realization that he was trapped despite his plans.

  “Elsa, fetch the constable,” Mrs. Polkinghorne said, startling all of them. Her chin rose. “You may think I cannot testify against you, but I assure you that my testimony shall scarcely be required with so many witnesses. For the life of me, I cannot understand why you have suddenly decided to take leave of your senses in this ridiculous fashion.” She sniffed. “And you will see how pretty your darling Dorothy is after bearing children and suffering your attentions for so many years!”