"I'm blasted if I know what to do Everleigh."
It was Alex, and by the sounds of it he was pacing back and forth. Despite knowing that she should not be eavesdropping on her husband's conversations, Hestia paused, wondering if perhaps he was discussing his marriage. Hopefully he and the Duke weren't so close that he would share the diabolical scene from last night; Hestia flushed, that would truly be adding insult to injury.
"It's a tricky situation, I agree," the Duke replied, in a very serious voice. "Are you certain that Dubois is guilty?"
"I am, now. I did not want to believe it, but after what Thomas found out in Truro --that there were witnesses to say Dubois had tried to hire men to attack Stockbow..."
Alex trailed off, whilst Hestia stifled a gasp of shock and incredulity. Her husband had known since Truro that Dubois was most certainly her father's killer, and yet had not bothered to tell her.
"What shall you do?" Everleigh asked gravely.
Hestia waited for Alex to respond with a suitable answer; preferably along the lines of hanging and quartering this criminal Dubois. Instead, her husband heaved a huge sigh, and simply stated "I don't know."
She took a step back from the door, shocked by his ambivalent reply. How could he not know what to do? Was it easy for him to overlook his friend's guilt, simply because her father had been a criminal?
"Did you hear something?" Alex asked sharply from inside. Panic surged in Hestia's chest; she could not face him now. She turned and fled the way she had come, never once glancing behind her to see if he was following.
When she reached the entrance hall, the front door was open. She could see the sun shining outside and longed for some fresh air, to help her breathing, which was coming in short, sharp bursts.
That scoundrel, she thought furiously, as she tripped lightly down the wide steps onto the driveway. That blackguard; he promised that he would help me find the man who had killed my father and then he hid the perpetrator's identity from me purposefully.
She thought back to the previous night, when she had asked Alex solemnly to share her bed, and bile rose in her throat. Thank goodness he had refused, or she would surely have run him through with a sword, now that she knew what a lying, deceitful prig he had turned out to be.
Hestia was so furious that she was near running, and soon she had reached the end of the pebbled driveway. Thinking that she would walk into St Jarvis, and call on Jane, she walked out the wrought-iron gates and onto the country road which led to the town. She had been walking for no more than five minutes, when a farmer on a cart stopped to offer her a lift.
"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, accepting his gnarled hand and sitting up beside him. "Are you going toward St Jarvis, by any chance?"
"I'll pass near enough, my love," the man said, with a wizened smile, "Thoughs I'll be staying on the main road to Truro."
"Oh. Perhaps I could beg a lift all the way there then, if it would not be too much trouble, sir?" Hestia replied impulsively. The urge to return home was overwhelming; she could not stay in Pemberton and look her husband in the eye, when she knew him to be such a cad. Truro was home, and Rose Cottage, though no doubt cold and damp, was hers.
"It's no trouble at all, Miss," the farmer replied jovially, flicking the reins so that the old-cart horse took off at a snail's pace, "In fact, I like having company on long drives. Tell me this; do you know much about growing turnips?"
"Nothing at all, sir," Hestia replied truthfully.
By the time they reached Truro, late that evening, just as darkness was falling, Hestia could have written an encyclopedia on the growing of root vegetables. She waved the farmer and his cart full of turnips goodbye under the watchful spires of St Mary's. He was headed west, toward Market Square, where he would sell his wares the next morning, whilst Hestia was going eastward toward home.
She made her way down the winding streets, past houses, which stood huddled atop each other, then cottages which stood apart, until finally she was walking along the familiar country lane, which would take her home. The last traces of light had just left the sky when she arrived at the gate of Rose Cottage. Her earlier anger at Alex had wiped any sensible thoughts from her mind, for she suddenly realised that she had no food, or even kindling to light a fire.
I feel as though there's something else I have forgotten, she thought idly, as she pushed the wooden door of the house open.
Henry!
A stab of guilt pierced her heart at the thought of poor, loyal Henry, whom she had left in her bed-chamber in Pemberton. Mind you, she had left him sleeping snugly upon her bed, and she knew that the spoiled little Cavalier would have detested the long journey from St Jarvis. Despite knowing that he would be most unappreciative of the plain cottage, Hestia rather wished that the little dog was there with her, as she grappled around in the dark for a tinder box and a candle. The shadows of the house felt unfamiliar, as though objects had been moved about since she had last lived there. She finally found a tinder box and the small stub of a candle, in the dresser by the kitchen window. The sense of relief she felt as the small flame threw much needed light into the darkness, was almost palpable.
She began to explore the small room, which acted as both a kitchen and sitting room, hoping to find some sticks, so that she could light a fire to throw off the cold night's air, that seemed to have permeated her very bones. She found a few, miserable twigs and set them aflame in the grate, hoping that the breeze which blew down the chimney, wouldn't extinguish them before the flames took hold.
She settled down in her mother's old chair, hoping to rest her bones, but her mind, which was usually quite practical, began to take fanciful notions, as noises from outside sent her heart racing. Ghosts are not real, she told herself, as the trees in the garden rustled in the wind. There was nothing to be afraid of, this was her home. Nothing could hurt her here; in fact nothing could hurt her as much as Alex's awful betrayal, which stung like a lash across her soul.
A particularly loud bang from the back garden caused Hestia to jump, her palms sweaty with fear. Whatever had made that noise, it was most certainly not the wind.
A fox, she thought, taking the fire poker in hand and peering out the window, or perhaps a badger. Instead of an animal, however, what she saw outside in the garden by the rockery, was a blonde haired man, who was swaying on his feet in the moonlight.
Her Uncle, Viscount Havisham.
Hestia clutched her shawl around herself and stepped out the back door into the cool night.
"Uncle," she called, her whispered voice echoing through the darkness. "Whatever are you doing?"
Havisham turned at the sound of his niece's voice, the muscles of his face slack from inebriation.
"Georgina," he slurred, as he caught sight of Hestia walking across the grass. "You're alive."
Hestia remembered, too late, the titbit of gossip that Jane had shared from London; that the Viscount Havisham had taken to the whiskey with gusto. He seemed more than drunk to her; his pale blue eyes were almost unseeing, and his mind seemed not quite right.
"I am Hestia, Uncle," she whispered uncertainly, coming to a halt a few yards away from where the drunkard stood swaying. "Georgina is gone. You came to visit just after she had died. Surely you remember?"
"She did not die," her Uncle whispered hoarsely, his face gaunt and pale. "She was murdered by that blackguard Stockbow."
"It was a low fever, which took her, Uncle," Hestia replied, taking a step back from the Viscount, whose dead eyes were beginning to unnerve her. "She was not murdered."
"She was," Havisham growled, his brow creasing in anger. "That pirate stole her from her home and murdered her. He took her from us and consigned her to a life of poverty, but I had my revenge on him."
I know what you stole Stockbow...
The words of the letter that her father had received, danced before her eyes, and a chill gripped her as she realised what his words meant.
"It was you," Hestia stated, her mi
nd whirring with the shock of it all, "You killed my father."
The Viscount gave a bitter laugh and threw the empty bottle he held in his hand onto the grass.
"A bullet in the brain was no more than that swine deserved, for the suffering he inflicted upon my sister." Havisham growled, advancing slowly toward her. "And yet, the man has driven me demented, ever since that night. I see him in my sleep. His face, before I pulled the trigger...I see him everywhere."
Her Uncle had gone mad from guilt, Hestia realised. The Viscount ran an agitated hand through his thinning blonde hair, glancing contemptuously at his niece.
"He deserved to die; Georgina would have lived a full and prosperous life, had he not taken her away. He left her with nothing," Havisham spat.
"That's not true," tears were in Hestia's eyes, as she protested against his cruel barbs. "Nobody deserves to die that way. You will hang for what you did Uncle."
Her words seemed to cause something inside the Viscount to snap, for he lunged at her, knocking her backward into the rockery. His large hands closed around her neck and he began to squeeze, his eyes wild with anger.
"I will not hang for Stockbow," he roared, spittle at the corner of his mouth. He was no longer human, but like a daemon or a rabid animal, as his fingers clung to her neck in a vice-like grip.
Panic seized Hestia, as her Uncle's grip on her windpipe prevented any air from entering her lungs. With the last of her strength she grappled for something, anything, to fight him off with. Her hand touched a stone from the rockery and with an enormous effort, she lifted it and brought it crashing against the Viscount's long, thin, aristocratic nose, praying that it would be enough to save her.
Chapter Sixteen
Fury and fear drove Alex, as he urged his mount into one last gallop. He had spent the best part of the ride to Truro debating whether he would wring Hestia's neck for absconding, or simply carry her away to the nearest inn so he could rain kisses over every last inch of her body.
"Would you like to stay in my bed tonight?"
Oh, how that simple question, asked in such a sweetly innocent way, had torn at his soul. He remembered the look of hurt on his wife's face, as he had refused her offer through gritted teeth. He could not have taken her, even though he had desperately wanted to, not when he was keeping the truth from her. She had not been the only one to suffer, for he had spent the best part of the night tossing and turning, longing to sate his body's need for her.
If only she had given him a chance to explain, he thought with irritation, as he left Truro and took the road to Rose Cottage, instead of running away. He had returned from the library, to find her bed-chamber empty, a miserable looking Henry alone on the bed. A search of the house had yielded no sign of her, until a slight scullery maid with a lisp, had said that she had seen the Marchioness, running down the driveway.
Alex had assumed that his wife had decided to walk to St Jarvis, being fond as she was of both walking and completely ignoring his instructions. When she was not to be found at the boarding house, or at Jarvis Hall, worry had begun to set in.
The noise that he had thought he had heard at the library door--it had to have been Hestia. What had she overheard? Her husband confessing that he knew who had killed her father, yet was reluctant to share it with her?
Alex had cursed so violently, that he had been forced to apologise to the butler at Jarvis Hall.
"Is everything alright, my Lord?" the elderly man had enquired, perplexed by the sudden change in the Marquess's demeanour.
"Please tell Lord Payne that I must go, at once to Truro," he had called over his shoulder, as he chased after the groom who had just relieved him of his horse. "And send word to Pemberton that I and my wife shall not return until the morrow."
That had been early afternoon, now it was late evening and the inky black sky above his head, was part obscured by heavy, threatening, rain clouds.
"I hope she has managed to light a fire," Alex grumbled, as he guided the horse --whose name he did not know, for he was borrowed from Everleigh's stables-- down the quaint country lane which led to Rose Cottage. Hestia's childhood home was the only place that he could think of that his wife might run away to. As well as hoping that she'd managed to heat the place, Alex was also hoping that she was actually there...
"Stop it!"
A wild shriek tore through the silence of the peaceful night, sending waves of panic through Alex's body. The voice was as familiar as his own; it was Hestia, and by the sound of it she was in trouble. He urged his horse on in a wild gallop, leaning low against the creature's neck, as they tore down the lane.
Once they reached the walls of Rose Cottage's garden, Alex leapt from the saddle, and crashed through the gate.
"No. Stop. Stop it."
Alex ran in the direction of Hestia's distressed voice, rounding the side of the cottage, to find his wife lying on the ground, beating at a man above her, with what looked like a stone. The blonde haired man had his hands wrapped around his wife's throat, though his efforts at choking her were being hampered by her admirable struggle and the tide of blood that washed down his nose.
"Unhand her at once, you cur," Alex roared, crossing the short distance in three long strides and grabbing the man by his collar. He hauled the scoundrel off Hestia, threw him against the wall of Rose Cottage and proceeded to rain punch after punch down upon his face.
"Alex, stop. You'll kill him if you keep hitting him like that."
A small white hand grabbed his bicep and tugged, willing him back from his furious frenzy. Alex let go of the man, who slumped unconscious to the ground, and turned to look at Hestia. His breath was ragged in his chest, and a stinging heat pricked his eyes; if he wasn't a war veteran, and a Marquess to boot, he would have sworn he was almost crying.
"Are you alright?" he asked, reaching out for his wife, whose eyes were huge and round in her deathly pale face.
"I'm fine," she whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. In her hand she still held the weapon that she had used to beat her attacker off with, clutched in such a tight grip that her knuckles were white.
"Is that Havisham?" Alex questioned, glancing down at the sorry heap of a man, slumped on the grass. The Viscount was out cold --though, from the smell of him, Alex couldn't be too certain if it was from the strength of his punches, or the strength of the alcohol the man had bathed in.
"He confessed," tears began to slide slowly down Hestia's cheeks, revulsion clear on her face as she glanced at her Uncle. "He was the one who killed my father, not Dubois. You were right."
"I don't care if I was right," Alex grunted, his heart aching for the slip of a girl before him. "All I care is that you are safe. You are my everything, Hestia. I could not bear if anything were to happen to you. I love you Hestia, with all my heart."
"I thought I was going to die," Hestia confessed, allowing him to take her free hand in his, "And then I thought how cruel a trick it would be, for me to die before I could tell you that I feel the same."
"You..?" Alex trailed off, not daring to hope.
"I love you," Hestia cried, flinging her arms around his neck. "I love you, for all your strength, kindness and compassion. I love you, even though you refused to share my bed."
"Hold on, one second," Alex gave a low growl, as he pulled her toward him. "I did not refuse, I simply could not share your bed whilst I was keeping secrets from you. How could I take all of you, when I was keeping a part of me from you?"
This seemed to mollify his wife, who gave a small mewl of approval at his words. Her blue eyes danced with happiness, and she tightened her grip around his neck.
"Oofh," Alex groaned, as the stone which she still held in her hand, thwacked the side of his ear. "You may drop your weapon, my Lady. I swear I'm not about to ravage you...just yet."
Hestia laughed and drew back, she made to drop the stone in her hand onto the grass, but before she could, Alex gave a gasp and reached out to grab her wrist.
"Wait,"
he whispered, taking the stone from her, his heart pounding with excitement. "Hestia, do you know what this is?"
He held the stone up for her to examine. Unlike the other stones in the garden, which were slate grey, this one was a pale yellow. It was flat and oblong shaped, and upon either side were strange etchings.
"It's not?" Hestia met his eyes, her own filled with wonder as she gazed upon the missing piece of Egyptian steele, that Alex had been searching for.
"It is!"
His cries of jubilation were interrupted by the Viscount, who had begun to stir from his slumber. Alex had near forgotten about the fiend in his delight at having been reunited with Hestia, and now the resurfacing of a long-thought-lost artifact.
"I'll tie him up, and then we can ride into Truro to find the local magistrate, and have him deal with him."
In a matter of minutes, Alex had bound the Viscount's hands and feet together with yarn from inside the cottage, he then took Hestia, seated side-saddle in his lap, into town. He left his wife in the safety of a warm bedroom in the local inn, and went to wake the magistrate --who was none too happy at being woken--and took him to Havisham. When Alex finally crept back into the room that he had left his wife in, he found Hestia sleeping soundly underneath fresh white sheets. Not wishing to disturb her, he removed his boots quietly, took off his coat and shirt, and slipped into the bed beside her.
Another man might have woken her and demanded his marital rights, but for Alex, just sharing a bed with his wife and having the pleasure of watching her slumber, was enough for now.
Epilogue
"Verdict of Murder Returned in Death of Notorious Pirate."
The headline about her father, unlike the previous one, was much smaller and tucked away at the back of the paper. Its insignificant position probably had something to do with Viscount Havisham's family, who had managed to have the Viscount quietly declared insane, and locked away in an asylum. Havisham's young son, Alex told her, had paid the papers a pretty penny to keep his father's misdeeds unreported.
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