Marcus took another step forward. Five yards and he could wrest the pistol from Polkinghorne’s grasp.
Polkinghorne’s head jerked in his direction, his eyes locking onto him. “I loved Eleanor, you know, and Dorothy is so much like her in so many ways… More sensible, perhaps, but like her. She said if only she were free… Free! Well, I made her free, for all the good it did me.” An expressionless mask dropped over his face.
Staring unseeing into Marcus’s eyes, he suddenly raised the pistol.
Marcus took a jerking step forward.
Polkinghorne put the barrel between his teeth and pulled the trigger.
The explosion shattered the quiet night. The sound seemed to go on and on.
When at last it died away, shrill, startled screams rose in waves. The shrieks reverberated through the hallway.
Chapter Fourteen
The front door burst open. Still in the grip of shock, Dorothy let out a sharp scream. She stepped back, bumping into someone who squealed into her ear. Before she could stop herself, she yelped again even as she realized it was her sister behind her. Grace put a hand on Dorothy’s arm and gently pushed her forward.
A tall, dark man ran into the hallway, followed by another man. A very short, very round man, dressed in the most violent yellow-and-brown checked jacket and trousers that she had ever seen.
“What, what, what?” The plump man moved lightly on the balls of his feet, edging around the taller man who Dorothy finally recognized as Mr. Gaunt. The stranger’s round hazel eyes widened, and he backed until he hit a narrow table against the wall. A letter fluttered to the marble floor. All the while, he continued to murmur his incessant, “What, what, what…?” Bending awkwardly, he picked up the letter. His plump hands fluttered before his left gripped the edge of the table and his right gripped the letter. “What, what, what?” he repeated, parrot-like, apparently incapable of speaking coherently.
“Lord Arundell!” Mr. Gaunt exclaimed, coming to an abrupt halt. His gaze locked on the crumpled body in the center of the hallway. He glanced at Marcus before he looked quickly around, catching Dorothy’s gaze. “I heard a shot—what has happened?” He focused on Marcus again. “Are you injured, my lord?”
Marcus took a step forward, his face as white as parchment. “No,” he answered abruptly before turning to Dorothy.
Before she could move, he pulled her into his arms, cradled the back of her head and pressed her face into his neck, knocking her bonnet askew. Almost strangled by the ribbon, she clutched him, not caring about anything except the feel of his arms around her. For the first time in what seemed like hours, she felt safe. The deep thud of his heart pounded against her cheek. She relaxed into the warmth and strength enveloping her, breathing deeply and trying to control her trembling when she exhaled.
The pattering of feet and swish of silken skirts made her glance around his shoulder.
With a moan, Aunt Mary rushed forward. Her hands covered her mouth, and her knees bent as if to kneel beside her husband. She wavered. A small screech escaped her before she lowered her face into her hands and backed away, unable to bring herself to step into the pool of blood surrounding her husband.
Shaking, Dorothy buried her face again in Marcus’s shoulder. How could he? What would they do now? What would Aunt Mary do? Their poor cousins… Her thoughts whirled, useless as dead leaves rattling in a cold autumn breeze. She ought to go to her, ought to offer her aunt some support, but she couldn’t leave Marcus’s secure embrace.
“What has happened?” Mr. Gaunt asked as he knelt on one knee to place his handkerchief over Cyril’s devastated head.
Though Marcus kept an arm around her, he turned with a reluctance she could feel in the tightening of his muscles. “He shot himself.” His terse words sounded harsh.
“What choice did he have?” Aunt Mary cried, lifting her head out of her hands to glare at Marcus. “What choice did you give him? You ruined him—ruined us all!” She pointed at Dorothy. “And you! This is your fault! I should never have allowed him to bring you here—give you Cecilia’s room—none of that was my doing!”
Dorothy shuddered and felt Marcus’s arm tighten around her. She didn’t want to think about her uncle or his unnatural feelings.
Her hands gripped her husband’s lapels as a deep welling of emotion shook her breath. He was the one she wanted to think about. She loved him so much she ached with the feeling. Whatever he felt for her, it couldn’t change the strength of the bond she experienced now, drawing them together in the midst of this horror.
“He made his decision,” Marcus ground out. His voice rumbled in his chest.
A sob wracked Aunt Mary. She shook her head before burying her face in her hands once more. Another quick patter of feet sounded before Cecilia and Jane ran out of the dining room and threw themselves at their mother. The three women clutched each other, wailing, while Stephen entered the hallway. He stood, pale-faced, gripping the edge of the dining room door.
“What, what, what?” the portly man babbled again. “I say, what has happened here?”
Marcus released Dorothy and pushed her gently away, although he kept a warm hand resting in the middle of her back. “Eburne—what are you doing here?”
“What, wh—” He clamped his mouth shut, stopping with an effort. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of a pond, he cleared his throat. The letter in his right hand protested crisply as his fingers tightened around it. “Thought I—” Mouth drooping unhappily, he waved at Cyril’s body. “Well, when Mr. Gaunt asked me, I had to admit it.” He broke off and lifted his hands, palms up. Creases formed on his round face as he caught sight of the letter. He frowned and smoothed it out before glancing up. His eyes widened as if hearing his words echo in his mind. His little, plump hands fluttered again, waving the letter through the air. “No, no, no—not admit. I had always feared this, you see. He was so angry—always so angry. Couldn’t see she was simply amusing herself. Eleanor was a sweet woman, of course, but she did enjoy her little amusements. One, of course, understands these things. Though he…not good. Not good at all. And the little child—such a tragedy.” He straightened and tried to tug his waistcoat down over his rotund belly, but the letter frustrated him. Walking lightly for such a plump man, he edged over to Dorothy, shoved the letter into her hand, and squared his plump shoulders. An almost noble expression gripped his face, his hazel eyes serious. “I had no proof—just suspicion—but I could not allow this to continue. Not when Mr. Gaunt explained your search for the child.” He sighed. “I hoped… I thought if I confronted him, he would finally admit the truth.”
“A bit late,” Marcus commented in cutting tones.
“Marcus,” Dorothy protested, glancing up at Marcus’s hard face.
Mr. Eburne had tried. He was obviously not made of the sternest stuff, but he had come, after all, striving to do the right thing.
Mr. Eburne flushed and moved crab-wise away from them, back toward the door. Droplets of perspiration ran down the sides of his face. “I apologize, my lord.” He gave a bow. An odd creaking sound revealed that his particularly upright posture might be due to the presence of a corset.
“Mr. Eburne has been in Germany for the last few months, my lord,” Gaunt said.
“Yes, yes, yes! Germany!” Eburne nodded, his double chin wobbling. “Just returned last week. So sorry, my lord. Thought they’d have him by now—or whoever did the dastardly deed—what?” His rising tone of voice turned what should have been a statement into a question.
He gazed at Marcus hopefully, blinking and tugging at his waistcoat which had a tendency to ride up, exposing several inches of the white linen shirt beneath it.
For some reason, Dorothy like him. She gave him a timid smile which he returned with evident relief.
The scrape of a shoe behind her caught Dorothy’s attention. She absently stuffed the letter into her pocket and turned to catch Grace’s wrist.
Dorothy dragged her sister forward. “Though we have not
been properly introduced, I must thank you for your concern, Mr. Eburne.” She smiled again and bit the corner of her lower lip when it trembled. It was such a terrible moment, but… She tugged harder on Grace, forcing her to walk in front of her.
And since her sister’s arm was still around the child’s shoulders, the movement brought the child into view, as well.
Dorothy stepped away from Marcus, rested her hands on the child’s thin shoulders, and turned the urchin to face him.
Chapter Fifteen
Marcus frowned at the sight of Dorothy’s hands resting on the filthy jacket covering the shoulders of a grimy-faced orphan. Unpleasant and very earthy odors swirled around them.
Then the child tilted her head back and looked up at him.
One blue eye and one amber sparkled in the lamplight of the hallway. Light-headed with relief, he opened his mouth, but he could find no words.
The child abruptly turned and buried her face in Dorothy’s skirt.
“Cynthia!” he ground out at last. He held out a hand, but the child clung even more tightly to Dorothy, flashing a single glance at him. “Cynthia,” he said more gently. “I am your uncle—Uncle Marcus. Do you not recognize me?”
Grace looped one arm around Dorothy’s neck and placed the other next to Dorothy’s hand on the child’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “She is shy and has had a terrible shock. We all have.”
“But why fear me?” He studied the child’s stiff back. Getting down on one knee, he tried to pry her away from Dorothy to face him. She turned, but kept hold of Dorothy’s wide skirt and used it as a curtain to hide behind. Only her oddly colored eyes peered at him above the heavy fabric. “Why did you not come to me? Or go to the Watch? Why did you run away?”
Dorothy and Grace exchanged glances. Dorothy cleared her throat and flushed. “We asked her—you must give her time. She has been desperately afraid—you must be patient.”
“But surely she knew,” Marcus said in a strained voice. “She must have known I would never hurt her, that I would protect her from whatever she feared.”
“You must be patient.” Dorothy gazed at him imploringly. “She witnessed what happened.” Dorothy’s voice fell, straining and stumbling over the words and terrible images they evoked. “Cyril strangled her mother and then saw her—that is, he saw Cynthia and grabbed her. He threw her into the river. Only the sheerest bit of luck kept her from drowning. She could swim, you know.”
“I know—I was the one who taught her.” Marcus’s chest burned with anguish as he stared at the child.
She leaned against Dorothy, her face hidden in Dorothy’s skirt.
Dorothy gave the girl’s delicate shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Somehow, she made it to shore, but I imagine she was in shock and hardly knew what to do. Well, what would you have done? She didn’t know why he killed her parents, didn’t know if anyone would believe her, so she did the best she could.”
Marcus raked a hand through his hair, his gaze roving over the child. He ached with anguished tension. “If she’d only gone to the local constable, I’d have come for her.”
“She thought no one would believe her,” Dorothy repeated. She reached over to give his forearm a sympathetic squeeze.
His mouth twisted bitterly. “With good reason, I suppose. She always did like to make up a good story and embellish it with the most outlandish details. I suppose she thought no one would believe her this time, either.” He knelt again and gently touched her shoulder. “Though I assure you, we would have. I would have.”
Cynthia jerked her shoulder away.
A sense of loss enveloped him. She didn’t trust him, even now. With a sigh, he stood.
“Give her time—please!” Dorothy said.
“Of course.” His voice was cool. Distant. His emotions were well under control now, despite his wife’s concerned glances.
After a moment, Dorothy looked around at the other strained, white faces. Her aunt and cousins were huddled together by the dining room door. Mary and the girls were sobbing hopelessly while Stephen kept blinking and swallowing, his mouth trembling.
“I…” Dorothy cleared her throat. “We must send for the authorities—but what are we to say?” Her gaze went to her uncle’s body, crumpled on the marble floor. She blanched. “Must we say what happened?” She gazed at Marcus. “Must we say he was a murderer? Or that he killed himself?”
A loud moan broke from Mary.
“I am afraid it is rather obvious,” Gaunt said, studying her with sympathy.
“Couldn’t he have been cleaning the pistol?” Dorothy asked quickly.
“In the hallway?” Marcus’s voice was all bitter, sharp edges.
Dorothy’s chin rose. “He fell, then. Slipped on the marble while he was carrying the pistol. His grip tightened—as it would, would it not? And it went off as he was falling.”
“I am sorry, Lady Arundell.” Gaunt shook his head. “But there remains the open inquiry into the deaths of the previous Lord Arundell and his wife.”
“What of it?” She stared at him. “There must be dozens of open inquires and unsolved cases. We know it is no longer a mystery. That is all that matters, is it not? What can be gained from besmirching my uncle’s name and reputation? He had children.” She gestured to her aunt and cousins. “What are they to do? The children of a murderer? What possible good can come from ruining their lives, too?”
“Justice,” Marcus grunted.
“Justice?” Dorothy’s gaze flew to his face. “Where is the justice in that? My uncle has already paid for his misdeeds—he is dead. You can not ask for more than that.”
“He died for his own convenience—not for the sake of justice,” Marcus pointed out cynically. He thrust his hand through his hair again and studied her with unreadable eyes.
“Maybe so, but you cannot—no one can—blame my aunt. Or my cousins. They are not at fault. They had nothing to do with this.”
His gaze drifted from her face to the remnants of the Polkinghorne family. They were a miserable lot. Pity flickered within him, riding on a sense of resignation. What good had come from any of this?
Other than finding Cynthia. And she wanted nothing more to do with him, despite his efforts on her behalf.
Finally, he shrugged. “As you wish, Lady Arundell.” His formal use of her new title set her on his side, at least.
The matter was settled, but at what cost?
Chapter Sixteen
Dorothy’s stomach sank as she studied her husband. What had happened? She could only conclude that her defense of her uncle and his family had angered or disappointed Marcus. It must have seemed as if she had taken the other side—the side of a murderer—against him.
Perhaps he even thought that she had flirted with her uncle and encouraged his attentions. Revulsion swept through her at the thought. If she had known what her uncle thought, she would have put an end to it as completely and swiftly as she could.
But it explained so much. Poor Aunt Mary must have been sick with jealousy and desperate to be rid of Dorothy, while her husband worked to achieve precisely the opposite goal. And then there was their bedroom. During their previous visit, they’d been relegated to the top floor where the servants resided. Dorothy had been surprised when they’d been given Cecilia’s lovely room this time. No doubt, the work of Uncle Cyril.
At least he had seemed content to bide his time, presumably until Grace married. When her younger sister left, Dorothy would have been quite alone.
She shivered.
The small of her back where Marcus had previously rested his hand suddenly felt icy cold, bereft of his warm touch. She pulled Cynthia more tightly against her, finding comfort in the child’s tight grip.
“Then… What are we to say about this tragedy? We must have an agreement,” Grace pointed out, stepping around Dorothy and Cynthia.
“Say whatever you wish,” Marcus suggested with scarcely a glance at her.
“That is not good enough!
” Grace declared, her hands fisted at her sides. “As you are well aware.” She looked at Dorothy, her gaze pleading for support.
Dorothy sighed and straightened, her hands resting on Cynthia’s shoulders. “As I suggested, we shall say he was carrying his pistol to the library to clean it after supper. He slipped on the marble, and it accidentally went off.”
“I am afraid there is still the matter of the late Lord Arundell and his wife,” Mr. Gaunt said. “The case is open.”
“We will treat it separately,” Dorothy replied. “We will speak to a magistrate privately. Surely, we can explain matters and have the case closed. There must be a way to seal it so that it need never be made public.”
Mr. Gaunt’s gaze flickered to Marcus’s hard face before he nodded. “I have the honor to dine occasionally with Sir John Patterson, one of the Justices of His Majesty’s Court. He is a fair man. I have no doubt he will understand the situation.”
“Thank—” Dorothy broke off and glanced at her husband. They must approve Mr. Gaunt’s suggestion together if it was to provide a satisfactory conclusion to the case that so intimately involved Marcus.
He studied her for a long minute with unreadable eyes before he said, “Very well. Now we must send for the constable.” He looked at the cluster of weeping women huddled by the dining room door and added, “And send for a physician, as well. One seems to be required.”
All too soon, a wiry, rough-looking constable arrived, followed closely by the physician routinely used by Aunt Mary.
In short phrases, broken by wracking sobs, Aunt Mary reported that her husband had had an accident with his pistol. Everyone else supported her, and since the weapon was still clutched by the deceased, the tale was accepted. Mrs. Jolly gently covered the body with a sheet, and with the assistance of Elsa and the cook, they carried away the pitiful remains.
Despite Dorothy’s pleas, Grace elected to remain in the Polkinghorne townhouse. She would be needed there, she insisted, and Dorothy felt too overwhelmed by everything that had happened to argue.
Seduction Regency Style Page 105