“No, ma’am. You’ve shown us a good time.”
Wycliff closed the door and led me through the gowns, shelves, and strong-smelling floral tonics to the back stairs.
We made it out of the house.
It was dark now.
Guided by stars, we walked quickly through the woods to where his carriage was.
Then I saw it.
A man had a gun on Mr. Lawden.
“Ruth, stay here.”
He pulled out his sjambok. “Stay.”
I watched Wycliff go to his man’s defense.
My ears perked up. Something moving nearby. It wasn’t the wind, nor was it imagined. Footsteps crunching twigs.
That feeling like this was all happening again swept over me. This was my fault.
I’d made Wycliff come here.
But this was worse than the past.
At least Adam had known that I loved him. Before he had died, he’d known all my love. Wycliff knew nothing of my heart.
With these glasses, I couldn’t make out what it was.
I didn’t trust them. I trusted me.
I felt around and found rocks. I gathered a few.
I heard the noise again, soft and low, crouching.
No closing my eyes.
No sitting back.
No taking it and hoping.
This time I’d face the danger and we, my Wycliff and I, would win.
…
With his sjambok at the ready, Wycliff started toward the clearing.
He should be hesitant.
Caution should be his guide.
None of that was in his head.
It was black, full of rage.
Killing a man wouldn’t be enough. His soul needed an army to die. Everything needed to die for the abomination Ruth had suffered.
Lawden stretched. The signal that he saw Wycliff.
He’d be ready.
Wycliff lifted his sjambok.
He swung.
The leather snapped and crackled. Then the impact, the sjambok slashed the assailant’s arm.
The fool yelled. The gun dropped to the ground. It didn’t discharge, and Lawden had it in hand the next instant.
But one hit wasn’t enough. For Ruth, Wycliff struck the fiend again and again, a lashing times three for every face he remembered at the attack.
One final strike. “That’s for harassing Lawden. Lord knows I ask too much of him.”
“Have mercy!” the man kept screaming.
No mercy. The sjambok had a life of its own. Lash. Lash. Lash.
Then the screaming stopped. He’d beaten the man unconscious.
“My lord.” Lawden grabbed his hand. “He’s disarmed. Relent.”
A bullet whizzed by.
Thwack.
A man screamed then fell forward.
Ruth came from that direction with rocks in her hand. “A shooter was over there. I hit him. I struck him good.”
She was resplendent. Coming through the brush, her hair spilling onto her deep-pink dress.
Goodness, he loved her. She looked strong coming to him after hearing Madame’s words. But Ruth didn’t possess his shock. She’d buried these truths inside her for four years.
Lawden ran up and took the man’s weapon. He might’ve kicked him. “Lord Wycliff, let’s be going.”
“Yes.” He took Ruth’s hand and lifted her into the carriage. “Back to Blaren House as soon as possible.”
Wycliff couldn’t say any more. He didn’t have words to express anything, just kept an arm about Ruth’s waist. He needed to get them back to safety as soon as possible.
Cousin Nicholas didn’t merely have to pay for touching Ruth. He had to die.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Be My Guest
When Wycliff said Blaren House, I was stunned.
He looked at me, that way he often did, as if he’d read my mind. “I’m not taking you back to the Croome household tonight. They may be watching Nineteen Fournier. My grooms are there observing.”
I was afraid for my family, my boy, but I knew what Wycliff said was right. I nodded.
“Good. We won’t provoke the fight tonight. I’ll not bring trouble on your family. I have to be smart. We have to be.”
His words reached through the fog that had begun to fill my mind. I’d hit someone. I’d defended Wycliff with my own hands.
I’d been strong for him, and that made my soul rejoice.
But the look on Wycliff’s face seared my conscience. It was as if these spectacles had collected strong sunlight and burned me.
He was in agony.
I felt the heat of his reddening face. The man was enraged.
The nightmare I had lived these four years was new and fresh to him.
“You didn’t need to come out here, you know. I would’ve believed you if you’d explained.”
“I couldn’t talk about it. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t my story. I needed you to hear Madame’s testimony. I needed to make sure that I hadn’t jumbled things. She’s my proof.”
He rubbed at his skull, like he’d rubbed my temples.
I felt the pressure of his fingers, as if he’d touched me. I missed that. It had only been two days since the theater, and I missed him.
“You knew they were watching. I understand better your precautions. I guess you’re not crazed.”
“No, I’m not. I wish I’d been crazed sooner. Then you would have never suffered.”
I felt the weight of what he’d put upon his shoulders. I shuddered. How could he survive this every day?
He moved from me to the other side of the carriage.
I stretched and touched his knee, but he didn’t look at me. I wondered if he still could. Was I too damaged to him now?
Small talk.
We’d always been good at that. “Lord Wycliff, did Mrs. Johnson set this attack in motion? She came to Nineteen Fournier.”
In the lantern light, I watched him untie his cravat that now had dirt stains and sweat. “I don’t know. I think she’s easily manipulated. She’s grieving. She has a baby to come and her husband committed suicide in debtors’ prison.”
“But she stole the book.”
“She knew the trunk from taking this ledger book. She sought an advantage. Crafty but not malicious.”
He swallowed like his throat was raw. “I think she’d use anything for an advantage but not plot for a murder, and definitely not yours.”
Wycliff stretched out, but the sjambok was by his boot. He looked like a frustrated warrior.
The knowledge we’d just escaped didn’t make me feel any better. These acts of revenge weren’t done. Soulden and Nicholas Wilkinson would try to hurt us again.
I wanted to be told that everything would be all right now, but Wycliff was quiet.
Another hour went by. It was pitch-black outside, but the blurry trees highlighted by the stars were gone.
Wycliff shifted between folding his arms, clutching the seat, and checking the windows. It was an odd dance, but I understood. I understood him.
The outlines of the city could now be seen.
We were in London proper.
We passed the streets that led toward Cheapside. Then I remembered we were going to Blaren House.
“Thank you for asking about Cicely.”
It was the first thing he’d said in a while.
I tried to smile, but I was tired. My head ached, and I was sitting in darkness across from my husband.
“She’s my sister-in-law, and Madame would know about lost mulatto girls. She knows about everything.”
“You know everything, too, Ruth. No wonder you and Madame are friends.”
The tension in his graveled voice felt heavy, like the stones I’d thrown.
“What does that mean?”
“You had to make me take you. You discounted what I said, what I knew to be true. Why is it so hard for you to trust me?”
“Wycliff, I didn’t know we’d be attacked.”
“But I did. Is this enough for you to believe in my precautions?”
“I have to prove myself and my word to everyone. Why are you special?”
He rubbed at his face. It was very red, scarlet.
“Are you mad at me for what just happened or for what happened four years ago?”
“Not mad at you at all. I am mad at me, Ruth. I didn’t think of this as a possibility, that Nickie would be this cruel. This is my fault. I misjudged things badly. When we married, you suffered. You suffered four years. You suffer now.”
I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, but I didn’t know what to say other than it wasn’t his fault, but I’d punished myself, too. I’d even taken it out on him. I touched his knee again to feel a part of him.
He took my fingers held them a second then released them as if he held fire.
“Now that you know I was brutalized, Wycliff, I’m damaged goods to you? That truth changes everything? It’s why I never wanted to say. Either I wouldn’t be believed or you’d hate me for their crimes.”
“It changes nothing about you but increases my need for revenge. If you’d trusted me, I would’ve been sweet to you. Much more patient. You could’ve told me in a carriage ride like this, just the two of us, talking. I didn’t need Madame’s testimony or the added excitement of running for our lives.”
“You’ve been sweet to me. You made me feel desired and beautiful. There’s no apology for that. But don’t confuse my reticence about what happened with you lying to me every day.”
“Ruth, I’m a cad if you think taking the opportunity to figure out how to get our love right was wrong.”
“What?”
“I didn’t get things right the first time. This was to be different. I wanted you to crave me, to feel me in your chest, your thoughts, I wanted you reaching for me always.”
He stretched as if he’d take me in his arms, but he drew his hands to the seat. “The more I suspected that you’d… that you’d been hurt worse than anything I could ever conceive, I needed to be more perfect so that you’d trust my affections.”
He had become perfect, and I did love Wycliff more than Adam. Yet, they were the same.
The carriage stopped.
“Ruth, I’m going to rush you inside. I need you protected.”
He took his sjambok and flexed it in his hand.
Once on the pavement, he reached inside and helped me down. Then he pulled me close to his shoulder. His cologne, his tangy Bay Rum, settled my nerves.
Swinging his whip, he kept me close. We went up the stairs and barreled into Blaren House. He rested on the other side of the door as a servant took his coat and hat.
I kept my wrap. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay or if Wycliff wanted me here. Too much was happening.
“There are bedrooms upstairs. Go make yourself comfortable. You’re safe here.”
He left me standing in the wide hall.
I didn’t want to be sent away, so I followed him to his study.
Sitting on the edge of his desk, he put his sjambok down. “You should be resting. There’s a modest staff of loyal individuals here to assist you.”
“We need to determine what we are to do.”
“About what, Ruth? Staying alive through the night? Please go rest.”
I felt as if I was losing something, and I didn’t know why. I came closer. I had to see his face. “You don’t love me because of what Madame said?”
He stood up and came to me and placed a palm under my chin. “I’m in love with you as much as ever, but I need a partner. I want to be a father to my son. I don’t know how our marriage can work.”
“You burned the proof.”
“It was half a marriage certificate, like half a marriage, where there’s not enough trust. Nothing more links you to Chatsworth Adoniram Wilkinson. You’re still the widow of the mythical and flawed Adam Wilky. And I’m Christopher’s big cousin. I still get to have a piece of him.”
Wycliff giving up? No. To hold on to him, I put my hands on his wrists. “What are you saying?”
“That this is all my fault. My mistakes made you vulnerable, made us take unnecessary risks. I must’ve made you believe you had to. You don’t know me. But that’s my fault, too. I’ve given you Adam and now Wycliff. None of them are for you.”
“Don’t discount my need for the truth because you think me fragile. I am fragile, but I’m strong, too. I had to hear the truth. You had to hear it from Talease.”
He put his fingers to my temples. Then traced lines to my mouth. “The truth was in here. Just say it aloud. I would’ve believed you, instantly. And why should I not? You’re a truthsayer. I trust the truth in you.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?”
“Ruth, I’m not a truthsayer, not like you. I’m a protector. I’ll do what I must to save you and to avenge threats to my interests.” He moved back to his desk. “You’re my guest in Blaren House. Let me have you escorted upstairs. The best room in the house is yours.”
“Wycliff, no. We should—”
“Let’s survive the night.
He clapped his hands and ordered Lawden to bring me upstairs.
My truth didn’t break my Wycliff. I’d broken him, and I didn’t know how to fix him.
I let him push me away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Candlelight
It would be easier to find Nickie and beat him to death with the sjambok. It would be wonderful and liberating for a moment, but Wycliff would never survive the inquest. Everything would point back to him. A barrister like Mr. Marks would make sure of a conviction.
No. The way to get Nickie was the same way all Wycliff’s enemies had been conquered, the financial transactions.
He stretched in his father’s chair and pored through the second ledger. The rhyme or rhythm of the accounts made no sense. This ledger made it appear as if Wycliff’s father had authorized Johnson’s illicit transfers. Algernon Nathaniel Wilkinson, ANW, was initialed page after page.
He drummed the desk, tapped the imitation bride sculpture. Wycliff hated the piece again. The romantic tale of men claiming their women was rubbish, horse leavings. Women shouldn’t be forced to do anything, not to become a bride, or a lover, or anything.
They shouldn’t have the truth hidden, either, even if it was for the best.
Blinking his tired eyes, he flipped another page. There had to be an answer between the two books—one that could end with Nickie jailed like Uncle Soulden would be tomorrow.
“Father, I wish I’d never promised you not to kill.” He lifted his glass of brandy, as if he toasted the air.
Lawden came into his study. “Everything is normal at Nineteen Fournier. All the Croomes are safe and accounted for, my lord. Get some sleep.”
“I can’t. I need to figure out how to end this.”
“Seems to me you need to think about beginnings. Mrs. Wilky would like to see you. She’s been asking for you.”
“This all must be very upsetting to her.”
“She’s pretty strong.” Lawden flipped through the other ledger. “Mrs. Wilky, she saved us. That bullet was marked for one of us.”
“I know, but she shouldn’t have been there. We shouldn’t have been there.”
Lawden shrugged. “The things you do for love. Don’t stay up too long. You know how you hate mornings. Tomorrow is a busy day.”
His man left.
Wycliff sat back in the well-worn chair. There was only one time in his life when he’d liked mornings. It had lasted a fortnight, four years ago.
He closed up the ledgers, tucked them under his arms with his sjambok, and headed to the second floor.
Everything was quiet.
From the window overlooking the grounds, he could see his grooms on alert.
Heading to one of his guest rooms, he noticed light streaming from his bedchamber. Ruth was in there. She was up. Maybe he should see her so she could sleep.
He knocked on the door a
nd waited.
“Come in.”
Her voice made his heart dance. Pressing open the door, he found her dress was folded in a chair, laid out so it would not wrinkle.
Wearing one of his nightshirts, Ruth sat in the middle of his nicely-made bed, knees up, bare feet showing.
After putting the books and sjambok on his walnut chest, he opened a drawer and pulled out another nightshirt.
Unbuttoning his wrinkled waistcoat, his soiled shirt, he pulled them both off in one floundering motion. He shouldn’t rush. He probably looked ridiculous.
A gasp, not a laugh, came from behind.
Ruth must’ve seen the depth of his scars.
“Do those on your neck hurt?” Her voice was low, a little skittish.
“Yes.”
“My arm does sometimes, and you know my headaches.”
They were veterans of the same war. He’d never forget that or forgive himself. He finished dressing, pulling on the nightshirt and his onyx robe.
He turned to leave, but Ruth stood at the door.
“You say my footfalls are quiet. Yours are pretty quiet.”
“Well, you weren’t looking for me. I look for you. I like having you near, walking with you. Talking with you, too.”
Why did she have to look so lovely in his nightshirt and bare feet?
“Do you need something, Ruth?”
“I want you to talk to me. I don’t want to be by myself. I’ve never been an overnight guest in Blaren House or anywhere. I missed putting my son to bed.”
“I’ll have you back safe and sound tomorrow.”
She brushed at her temples, thick curls dropping to her neck. “What are we going to do?”
He tied his belt robe. “What do you mean?”
“I want to know what you want. I want to hear your opinion of how we go forward, Adoniram.”
He folded his arms. “Well, one, we never use that name.”
“Chatsworth? Is that better.”
“Definitely not better.”
“I need to know what to call my husband. A woman should know that.”
“You want this husband, Ruth? After everything I and my relations have done?”
“Yes. I almost lost you again. I don’t want that. I don’t care about your name anymore, and I don’t want to be alone in your house, in your room, in a bed that smells of Bay Rum, when you are here and alive. Do you know how often I sleep on your cape?”
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