by Alec, Joyce
“For what reason?”
Francis shrugged, his mind working quickly. “I will think of something, I am quite sure. Maybe I have specific congratulations to pass on from someone of note.”
“I think Lord Chaucer would deeply appreciate something such as that,” Lord Wickton commented dryly. “He does appear to be that sort of gentleman.”
The sort that cares nothing for anyone other than himself, Francis thought silently, the urge to protect Lady Chaucer still burning with strength, deep within him. This, he knew, was somewhat foolish and would only be the very smallest of comforts to a lady who was married to—and therefore the property of—another gentleman, but he could not prevent himself from behaving so. The tiniest comfort he could bring her, the smallest amount of hope, would be better than having nothing at all.
“Not present in the dining room, either,” Francis muttered quietly, frowning to himself as he closed the door. He could hear the butler’s whining voice, filled with complaint and upset, coming towards them both, but he continued regardless, ignoring the man completely.
The library was next, and thereafter were the study and the lady’s bedchamber, although Francis knew he could not go into either.
“I shall distract the butler, shall I?” Lord Wickton murmured, pressing Francis’ shoulder for a moment and halting his hasty steps. “The man is quite determined to have us thrown from the house. Look, he has found some footmen now.”
Francis threw a hasty look over his shoulder and saw that the butler was bearing down upon them with a dark look on his face.
“I must check the library and if she is not present, then I must consider my endeavor to be entirely wasted,” he whispered. “I shall be but a few minutes. Try not to allow them to know where I have gone.”
Lord Wickton slapped Francis’ shoulder hard, and then turned towards the butler, his booming voice filling the hallway. Glad that he was still able to tell where the library was situated in daylight, since the house had been shrouded in darkness for most of his visit the day before, Francis quickened his steps all the more, hearing the butler’s shouts of frustration fade away as he opened the library door and slipped inside.
He turned, resting his back against the closed door for a moment as though to gather his thoughts, but found the room to be quite empty. Frustration ran straight through him, his thoughts turning this way and that. He could not help Lady Chaucer, it seemed. Nor could he leave her a note since her husband would, most likely, read it and thereafter, blame her solely for the contents. He could not allow her to bear any sort of punishment. It was a torturous thought, realizing that she was so close and yet still so far out of reach.
Sighing heavily and wondering to himself why the drapes had not yet been fully pulled back from the library windows, Francis made to open the door, only for something to catch his eye.
Something that made his heart stop.
It was a hand.
A hand that was lying outstretched on the floor, with only the fingers visible from where Francis stood. The hand must be connected to a body, he realized, his heart beginning to thump furiously as he froze in place. Was it Lady Chaucer? Was this why the butler had been so insistent that he could not see either Lord Chaucer or Lady Chaucer? What had Lord Chaucer done to her?
“My lady,” he breathed, his lungs gasping for air as he stumbled towards the fireplace, the furniture in the room still blocking his view.
And yet, as his steps drew him closer to the sight, Francis began to realize that it could not possibly be Lady Chaucer. The hand was connected to an arm, and the arm was clad in a jacket. A dark-colored jacket that was favored by most gentlemen.
The air was growing thick around him as he took slow, careful steps towards the sight, suddenly realizing that this was a situation that he need not involve himself in. Had he not just been pardoned from what had been a terrible crime? Was he truly now to put himself in a place of danger?
And then a vision of Lady Chaucer, sitting as she had done in the chair last evening, swam back into his mind. She had been so lost, so heartbroken and frail, that he could not turn his back on her now. Whatever had happened, whoever this was, she might need his support and assistance, and he was not about to refuse her that.
“Lady Chaucer?” he asked hesitantly, his voice wavering just a little as he took a few steps closer. “Is that… oh, my!”
His eyes flared wide as he took in the scene. Lady Chaucer was sitting in the very same seat he had seen her in last evening, although her eyes were closed and she was as white as a sheet. There was a large knife sitting in her lap and even in the dim light, Francis could make out the smears of blood that were on the blade and on her bare arms.
She was wearing the same gown as yesterday evening, her hair tumbling down out of her pins. What was it she had said? That she had no other choice but to endure what was to come? Had she taken action, seeing no other way out?
His eyes fell upon the body of Lord Chaucer, who was lying on his chest, unmoving and, from the bloodstain soaking into the rug beneath him, no longer of this world. Francis felt himself tremble inwardly, his heart slamming furiously into his chest as he took in the horrific scene.
And then, hearing the butler and Lord Wickton still arguing outside the door, Francis sprang into action.
He did not hesitate, did not try to waken Lady Chaucer, but did what he had to in order to ensure her name was not blackened for all eternity. Tilting her forward gently and seeing that she did not awaken even a little, Francis tried his best to have the knife fall to the floor without touching it himself. It did not seem to want to loosen itself from where it sat, and it was only when, in desperation, Francis scooped Lady Chaucer into his arms, that it fell beside the body of Lord Chaucer.
Swallowing hard, Francis lifted Lady Chaucer carefully and, avoiding the bloodstain and Lord Chaucer’s body, made his way towards the other door, the one that Lady Chaucer had exited from last evening. He had very little idea where it led and no certainty about where he was to put the lady in question, but he continued on, unrelenting in his steps.
The door swung open and Francis stepped outside into the hallway. The staff, it seemed, were quite taken up with the commotion that Lord Wickton was creating. The fellow was doing a remarkable job of ensuring that they had no knowledge of where Francis was. From what he could hear, Lord Wickton seemed to be arguing that Francis had every right to be present in the house and that he would not budge on the matter unless he heard it from Lord Chaucer’s lips himself.
Lady Chaucer’s head rolled against Francis’ shoulder, her eyes still tightly shut. The paleness of her face worried him dreadfully, and he feared for her very life. Her breathing was shallow, the weakness of her limbs making her limp in his arms.
“What am I to do?” he whispered to himself hoarsely. Lord Wickton’s carriage was just outside the door, but he could not reach it without alerting the staff, who would be more than shocked to see him carrying the lady of the house in his arms. There would be even more of a shock when they discovered the bloodstains on her gown and arms, for once the body of her husband was discovered, the blame would sit solely on her shoulders.
Even Francis did not know what to think about what he had seen. To see the knife so near to her hand, to see the bloodstains and to know how she had spoken of her husband left very little doubt in his mind—and still, he wanted to protect her until the truth came to light.
What he would do thereafter, he had very little idea.
“I cannot think where he might have gone,” Francis heard Lord Wickton proclaim loudly. “I do hope he has not gone above stairs. Is that not where your master sleeps? I must say that the thought of being awakened so rudely would put me in something of a temper!”
A sheen of sweat broke out over Francis’ forehead as he heard the thundering footsteps of what seemed to be Lord Chaucer’s entire staff racing up the stairs. Their loyalty to their master was quite apparent and, had he thought better of the man, Fran
cis might have been almost impressed with their devotion. But suspecting it came from fear rather than a good master, he believed it misplaced.
“Do forgive me, Lady Chaucer,” he murmured, managing to kick back the lid of a chest that was situated in the hallway, aware that he was jostling her terribly. The chest did not appear to contain much other than some sheets and linens but seeing as he had very little idea what else to do, Francis found himself entirely caught up with the one single thought that had come to him.
Quite how he managed to cover Lady Chaucer with a sheet, he was not sure, for he still carried her in his arms and had to ensure that her face was not completely covered so that she might still breathe, but it was enough to hide her from anyone who might spot him. Of course, if they were to look closer or demand that he pull back the sheet to reveal what he was stealing from Lord Chaucer’s home, he would have no excuse and would, therefore, ruin both Lady Chaucer’s reputation as well as his own. But for the moment, it was either that or leave her there to face the wrath that would follow.
Peering around the corner, Francis saw that no one remained in the hallway that led to the front door. The sound of footsteps, of loud conversation and the like, echoed above him, but Francis had no time to wait. He had to go at this very moment, or risk discovery.
Drawing in a long breath and praying that fate would smile upon them both, Francis stepped out from his hiding place and rounded the corner. Marching swiftly towards the door, he felt his skin prickle with anticipation and a touch of fear. The door loomed ever closer, just as he heard a few voices come from behind him.
His steps quickened, his hand gripping the door handle as he made to turn it. The fresh air hit him hard, encouraging him, helping him to descend with the bundle of Lady Chaucer in his arms.
Lord Wickton’s footmen stared at him, the carriage still ready and waiting.
“Ask no questions,” Francis commanded severely, his breath rasping. “Open the carriage door. Hurry, now.”
Jerked into action, the footman opened the door at once and Francis carefully set Lady Chaucer within.
“Go now. Go back to my townhouse and deposit the lady carefully in the drawing room,” he instructed, stepping back and allowing the door to close behind Lady Chaucer. “I will return with Lord Wickton with all speed. If she awakens, reassure her that I am coming to speak with her, but it is imperative she does not leave the residence.” He sent a sharp glance towards the stunned footman, who was nodding whilst attempting to hide his surprise and astonishment from Francis.
“Very good,” Francis muttered, his stomach twisting this way and that with all the tension that he felt. “You have my permission to block the doors if she should attempt to make her way out despite what you have told her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Francis heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage began to roll away, knowing that it was only because of his friendship with Lord Wickton that the footmen and driver were willing to do as he demanded. Given the seriousness of what had just transpired, he would have to ensure that Lord Wickton demanded silence from his staff, with such a severe penalty for any gossip that they would have no choice but to obey.
Waiting until the carriage had rounded the corner, Francis let out his breath and felt sweat trickle down his spine. Were it not for Lord Wickton, he would never have been able to remove Lady Chaucer from the house, although what he was to do with her now, he was not quite sure.
Slowly climbing the steps and attempting to put a somewhat bored expression on his face, Francis opened the front door and stepped inside. There was no one present, so he closed the door behind him quietly and stood just within the threshold, appearing to be quite put out.
It took some minutes for the butler, footmen, and what appeared to be a few maids to come into view. Lord Wickton was with them, although he registered Francis’ presence with nothing other than a small lift of his brows.
“Ah, there you are!” Francis said loudly, trying to appear irate. “I have been waiting for some time for you to return and thought it quite foolish to come searching for you. Where have you been, Lord Wickton?”
Lord Wickton’s eyebrows rose all the higher, although a glimmer of amusement appeared in his eyes.
“I do apologize, good sir,” he replied, as the butler stood, fuming silently, beside him. “I was searching for you! I told the staff here that you were determined to find Lord Chaucer, to pass on the felicitations of the Duke of Hampton, and thought that you had gone above in search of him.”
Francis rolled his eyes, tutted, and bowed his head towards the butler. “I am truly sorry for my friend’s suggestion that I would ever roam this house in such a manner,” he stated firmly. “No, I looked in the drawing room, dining room, and study and found neither Lord nor Lady Chaucer.”
“As I said,” the butler grated, his eyes a little narrowed, “Lord Chaucer is resting and Lady Chaucer is not seeing visitors either.”
“Still abed, then,” Lord Wickton grinned, winking heavily at Francis, who struggled to raise a smile given all that was going on within his heart. “That is not at all surprising.” Chortling loudly, he walked towards Francis, eyeing him carefully. “I do apologize. Quite a mix up, is it not?”
Francis laughed, although the sound came out hard and hoarse. “Indeed.” He saw the staff beginning to melt away, wondering inwardly just how long it would take for them to discover Lord Chaucer’s body. “Now we must away. I did hear this morning that Lady Chaucer was out and about giving morning calls to her acquaintances, but I did not believe it to be the case.” He shrugged, only just catching the slight glint in the butler’s eye. An idea was growing in Francis’ mind, and he was trying desperately to lay the foundations for what would have to be built on it later. “Is she not acquainted with your sister, Lord Wickton? Mayhap we might call upon her to see if Lady Chaucer has escaped from the house early in the day, whilst her husband is still resting.”
“It would be an idea,” Lord Wickton replied amiably, as though he knew precisely what Francis was talking about. “Shall we go this very moment?”
“Yes, I would be glad to see Miss James again,” Francis replied loudly as the butler stiffly pulled the door open for them both. “A capital idea. Perhaps I shall be able to pass on the Duke’s felicitations after all.”
The butler shut the door behind them almost the moment he and Lord Wickton had stepped outside. Francis let out his breath slowly, feeling the tension gradually begin to leave him.
“And now you are going to explain to me precisely what occurred,” Lord Wickton said in a low voice as they descended the steps. “You know very well that Lady Chaucer is not in any way acquainted with my sister. What makes you think so?”
Francis shook his head. “I will require your aid in this, Wickton. And that of your sister’s, I fear.”
“Charlotte?” Lord Wickton repeated, looking surprised. “You truly wish to see her?”
“As I said, I will require her help,” Francis replied, beginning to walk along the street. “Something of the utmost seriousness has occurred and I must help Lady Chaucer in any way I can. At the very least, we must find out the truth and thereafter, make a plan as to what we are to do.”
“The truth?” Lord Wickton stopped dead, turning to face Francis. “I do not understand in the least what you are referring to, Newton. What has occurred to make you so dreadfully pale?” He looked all about him, gesturing wildly. “And where is my carriage?”
Francis put out one hand towards his friend, trying to quieten his voice. “It is at my residence, Wickton.”
“On your instructions?”
“Indeed.”
“And why is that?”
Francis hesitated, then spread his hands out wide. “Because I have removed Lady Chaucer from this house and placed her in the carriage so that she might be taken to my home, Lord Wickton. That is why.”
5
Someone was calling her name, rousing Henrietta from her sleep. Her head
ached, a pain settling behind her eyes as she struggled to open them.
“Lady Chaucer,” said the voice again. “Henrietta, you must try and rouse yourself.”
Henrietta wanted to ask how the person calling her knew of her name, but found that her lips would not move, nor would her eyes open, no matter how much she tried. A groan escaped her lips and she found herself desperate for the warm, welcoming arms of the slumber from which she had only just escaped.
“That sounded like something,” said another voice, female this time. “I do hope she is quite all right. After what has occurred, I can hardly bear to think that she, too, is injured.”
Henrietta wanted to say that, aside from her painful head, she was not at all unwell nor was she injured in any way, but she still could not find a way to speak. It was as though her mouth had been forced closed and it was now too stiff, too heavy to open no matter how hard she tried.
With another groan, Henrietta forced first one eye open and then the other, immediately feeling gentle hands lifting her carefully until she was sitting upright. The world around her swam horribly, making her stomach twist this way and that until she feared she would cast up her accounts.
“You are quite safe, Lady Chaucer,” said the first voice, although Henrietta could still not quite focus on the face in front of her. “You have nothing to fear.”
“I think the lady has been drugged,” said another voice, one she had not heard before. “Unless it is nothing more than a good deal of brandy or the like the night before, which, given the circumstances, would not be unlikely.”
“I hardly think that could be the case,” said the first voice. “I was with the lady until she retired. It would have taken copious amounts of liquor to render someone so languorous this morning, and I hardly think that she would have been able to… well, you understand my meaning… if she had been barely able to stand due to the amount of brandy or the like running through her.”