by Joyce Alec
Shock raced through Stephen. Had Lady Moore just confessed to killing her own husband, in order to be free of him?
“Mad,” he heard someone say. “They are both mad.”
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to say that, yes, Lady Moore was not in her right mind, but part of him felt as though that would be taking responsibility for her actions away from her. He shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “Not mad, but arrogant.” He looked across at the guests sitting around the table, seeing each and every face looking back at him. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would ask you to return to your own homes now. This matter must be brought to an end. Pray, take yourselves home.”
There was not a word of protest. Stephen waited until the room had emptied before he took a breath, steadying himself for what he had to say next. Lifting his eyes, he trained them on Lady Moore. “I see what you are, Lady Moore. I see you for what you are not. Lady Ashton has shown me what kindness, selflessness, and love are, whereas you are proud and selfish, punishing those who did not treat you as you ought to be treated. Looking for retribution for no other reason than your own spitefulness. And you,” he continued, now looking at Lord Hertford. “Willing to kill simply for money. To try and punish Lady Ashton because she knows her own mind and would not give you what you desired. You attempted to kill me so that I might not be able to wed her, bringing her sorrow and wretchedness in the process. Is that why you did such a thing? Is that why you stabbed me?”
Lord Hertford’s lip curled. “Next time, the men I hire will not miss your heart,” he threatened, only for Lord Turner to grasp him by the collar and, in one swift movement, slam him into the wall.
“This is over, Lord Hertford,” Lord Turner said evenly, without a single trace of anger in his voice. “It will be transportation for you. Oh no, you need not think that the Bow Street Runners will be involved, for they can be much too lenient when it comes to nobility. No, I will take you to the docks myself and watch you sail away on a boat of my choosing. You will be punished for the life you have taken, and for the lives you tried to ruin.”
Lord Hertford quailed at this, protests pouring from his lips, but Lord Turner, without so much as a word in response, dragged the man from the room, leaving Stephen, Lady Moore, Lady Turner, and Lady Ashton alone in the room.
“And what of me?” Lady Moore asked eventually, sitting helplessly in her chair. She was as white as milk, her head resting back against her chair as though she could not find the strength to lift it. “Am I too to be transported?”
Stephen shook his head. “The sanitorium, Lady Moore. That will have to be of your own volition, however, or else I will send for the Bow Street Runners.”
Lady Moore closed her eyes. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a breath. “The sanitarium is more of a punishment than the gallows.”
“It must be one or the other,” Stephen warned, as Lady Ashton pushed her chair back to come and stand beside him. “Your actions cannot go unpunished, Lady Moore.” The fact was, whether or not she had killed her husband was something that they could never prove, but the consequences for what she had done in ordering and working with Lord Hertford to ruin both his and Lady Ashton’s life could not be ignored.
“Mr. Martin is here to assist you in your decision,” Lady Turner said, getting up from her chair and walking to the door. Opening it, she let Mr. Martin in, who had been waiting in Lord Turner’s carriage, in case he was needed.
“Mr. Martin, Lady Moore has confessed the truth, which is just as you suspected,” Stephen said firmly, turning his face away from the lady and feeling as though he could not look at her for another moment. “Lord Turner has Lord Hertford in hand.”
Mr. Martin’s smile was grim. “Indeed.”
“Why do you not take Lady Ashton home, Lord Johnston?” Lady Turner suggested. “I think you have both been through a very great ordeal already. I will remain with Mr. Martin until my husband’s return.”
Stephen wrapped an arm around Lady Ashton’s shoulders, feeling her lean into him. “Thank you, Lady Turner. We will speak again tomorrow, I hope?”
“Of course. Tomorrow,” she stated, before turning her attention back to Lady Moore. “Lady Moore,” she said loudly, just as Stephen and Lady Ashton left the room. “You need not pretend to have fainted. I am not as big a fool as all that.”
Epilogue
“We are free.”
Stephen smiled to himself as Lady Ashton leaned into him, feeling the relief flood him as she did so.
“Yes, my love,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to her brow. “We are indeed. And, in a week’s time, we shall be man and wife.” Turning to face her, he took both of her hands in his. “And I can hardly endure the wait. To begin life over again with you by my side, to fill each day with love and affection…it is a joy I have been longing for.”
She smiled at him, the strain gone from her expression. “I love you so very much, Johnston.”
“As I love you,” he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her for a moment. Heat and fire spiraled through his veins at the smallest touch, his heart lifting within his chest.
“There is only one thing that leaves me with some confusion,” Lady Ashton murmured, as the carriage drew up.
“Oh?”
“Lord Shafer,” Lady Ashton said, shaking her head. “It is evident, I think, that he was attempting to throw us both together at first, in the hope that we would be able to aid one another. Thereafter, with the note and the doctoring, he proved to us that he is a friend, but why then did he never simply remain and state the truth of what he knew? Why is there so much secrecy surrounding him?”
Stephen had to admit that such questions had been dogging his mind also. “I cannot tell, my love,” he sighed, as the steps were put in place. “He must have his reasons and mayhap, staying out of sight is for his own safety in some way.” He took her hand and helped her up the steps. “I think–”
“Oh!”
He was inside the carriage before he knew it, wondering what it was that had startled her so. “Mary? What is it?”
She had something in her hand, sitting down opposite him. “A letter,” she breathed, holding it in her hand. “A letter left here on the seat of the carriage.”
Stephen blinked rapidly, trying to calm his frantic heart. After a quick word to the driver, the door was shut and the carriage made its way through the London streets. Grateful for the carriage lantern, he peered at the letter held in Lady Ashton’s hand, not recognizing the writing.
“Open it, my dear,” he encouraged gently, seeing her glance up at him as though she had forgotten he was there.
Turning it over, Lady Ashton broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
“Read it aloud, if you would,” he begged, not wanting to be left waiting to know what it was written within.
“My goodness,” Lady Ashton breathed, holding the letter closer to the carriage lantern. “It begins with, ‘My hearty congratulations to you both’…” She trailed off, staring at him until Stephen felt as though he could take no more.
“Please, read it through, my love,” he said encouragingly. “You will have no answers staring at me.”
This brought a small smile to her face, and so with a quick clearing of her throat, she began. Stephen leaned forward in his seat, desperate to hear all that was said.
“‘My hearty congratulations to you both on your upcoming wedding. I must also apologize for my absence from such a happy occasion, for much is still required of me here in London.’” She drew a breath before continuing to read, her voice no longer trembling. “‘I apologize to you, Lord Johnston, for not realizing you had been drugged with laudanum that night at White’s. I thought you simply could not hold your brandy. Had I but known, then I might have been able to prevent Lady Moore from succeeding in her plans. Of course, I am glad that I was able to discover what Lady Moore planned for you both before she set the plan in motion. You did what I could not – looked after Lady Ashton and kep
t her from harm. Due to all other difficulties that I am currently enduring, I was unable to find out which gentleman that was pursuing Lady Ashton was working alongside Lady Moore. This is why I attempted to warn you that it was not simply your own life that was in danger of being completely ruined, Lord Johnston. How glad I am that you have both brought this nasty, cruel business to such an end. I must commend you for bringing in Lord Turner. Without his influence, then this conclusion might have taken some time to be reached.’”
Lady Ashton looked at Stephen, her eyes widening as she took in what she had read. “He speaks as though he knows you very well,” she commented, her brow knotting. “Although it does explain a good deal. This Lord Shafer – for I presume this is whom the letter is from – works in the shadows and, for whatever reason, is unable to reveal himself. He overheard Lady Moore discussing you and, mayhap, suggesting that I too be treated with callousness and cruelty. However, he did not know who it was that spoke with her.”
“Yes,” Stephen agreed, wondering if they would ever discover the identity of Lord Shafer. “It appears you are correct there, my love.”
Lady Ashton nodded, smiled, and then turned her attention back to the letter.
“‘I am certain that my lack of openness with you both and my refusal to talk to you directly must be more than frustration, but I must protect myself at all costs. It is no lie to say that I have been stuck in a situation of great danger and trouble for many years, which began upon my return to England a little over eight years ago. Since then, I have done all I can to remove myself from this nightmare but find that my loyalty to King and country keeps me in this self-made prison. I have often thought of you, Lady Ashton, and was sorry to hear of your husband’s death. I am glad that you are well and that you will be happy with Lord Johnston, whom I know will treat you with all kindness.’”
Stephen’s eyes widened as Lady Ashton’s voice grew softer and softer, hesitating as she finished the last few sentences.
“‘I am not lost to you, my dear girl, and shall one day return home to claim both my title and my sister. For the moment, I must remain Lord Shafer but, in time, I will once again become your ever-loving brother—Greggory.”
The Aristocrat’s Charade
Brides of London
Prologue
Nineteenth Century London
Miss Ophelia Grey tried her utmost to shed even a single tear as Viscount Marchmont walked away from her, but found that all she felt was relief. Relief that Viscount Marchmont had chosen not to propose and, therefore, had freed her from any thought of marriage to such a man.
Sighing quietly to herself, Ophelia turned around and began to walk back towards her waiting carriage. Whilst she was glad of her freedom, she was quite sure her aunt, Lady Sharrow, would not be at all glad to hear of this news. Most likely, she would go into a deep depression of sorts, as she had so often done before. The first time her aunt had done such a thing, some eight years ago when Ophelia had first arrived in the house, Ophelia had been beside herself with both fear and anxiety. She had struggled with her seeming inability to aid her aunt and had worried almost constantly that she did not seem to respond to anything that had been offered her.
However, given that Lady Sharrow had recovered from that episode, only to almost immediately decline into yet another one over something as small as a lost china cup, Ophelia had begun to question her aunt’s condition. Lord Sharrow had not been at all concerned, and Ophelia had soon learned that it was rather common for Lady Sharrow to find herself in these pits of despair. Therefore, it had become something of a habit for Ophelia to do as she always did when such a despondency occurred—ensuring Lady Sharrow was cared for and was brought whatever she wished but, aside from that, leaving her aunt alone until she decided herself to return to her life in all its fullness.
“It cannot be helped,” Ophelia muttered to herself, climbing into the carriage and glancing at her maid who sat on the opposite side of the carriage, looking steadfastly out of the window. Sighing to herself, Ophelia settled her hands in her lap and waited for the carriage to take her back to her aunt and uncle’s townhouse.
Gazing out at the London streets, Ophelia found herself wondering if this would be her last Season or if her uncle would spare her another. He was not in London at present, having left Ophelia and Lady Sharrow to make their own way through the first few weeks of the Season, but Ophelia knew his intention was to join them at a later date. It was early enough in this Season for her to be considered by another gentleman, but most likely, after Lord Marchmont’s rejection of her, not many gentlemen would be willing to so much as look at her for a second time. There was something about her, they would say, that had turned Viscount Marchmont away from her and therefore, she would be considered unworthy of their attentions. Not that Ophelia considered that to be something of great loss, for her standards had always been particularly high when it had come to accepting the court of gentlemen.
Viscount Marchmont had, on the surface, appeared charming, affable, and kind, but once she had come to know him a little better, she had found him to be entirely dull. Their conversations had been thin and staid, leaving Ophelia struggling to find questions to ask or things to say that would fill the awkward silences between them. She had expected that the viscount would bring their courtship to an end, and when he had told her that he would not be able to consider her any longer, she had felt nothing but relief. Attempting to feel some sort of sadness or loneliness as she had watched him walk away had failed completely, for she had simply been glad to be on her own again.
Yet Lady Sharrow will mourn for him, Ophelia thought to herself wryly. She will call you a spinster and despair of you all over again.
“Then mayhap a spinster is what I shall be,” she murmured to herself as the carriage drew up to Lord Sharrow’s townhouse. “And I shall not consider it to be something worth grieving over, despite what my aunt might say.” Ophelia knew all too well that she was not particularly beautiful, did not have an overly large dowry to make up for her plainness of face, and had a penchant for speaking her mind. She would never be given the accolade of being called a ‘diamond of the first water’ nor would gentlemen consider her quick wit and sharp mind to be wonderful characteristics. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance sought a dull mind and nothing more than a genteel cordiality, delicate manners, and a beautiful outward appearance so that they might add something more to their own status by having such a creature by their side. Such gentlemen were not particularly worthy gentlemen, as far as Ophelia was concerned, and she did not want to even consider coupling herself to any of them, despite what her aunt wished. No, she would rather remain a spinster than be married to a gentleman who cared nothing for her.
Lifting her chin, Ophelia walked into the townhouse and handed her bonnet and gloves to the waiting butler. On hearing that her aunt was waiting expectantly for her in the drawing room, Ophelia drew in a long breath, settled her shoulders, and walked towards the drawing room for what she knew would be a rather long and painful conversation.
1
Viscount Peter Marchmont tried to open his eyes.
They were too heavy. He could not do it.
His mouth opened a crack, a long breath making the sound of a groan as he tried to speak. He had no memory of where he was or what he had been doing. Surely he could not have drunk so much liquor last evening that he had wound up in a heap on someone’s floor? That was not at all like him and he certainly could not imagine that he had behaved with such a lack of decorum. It was only the start of the Season, was it not?
The groaning became a little louder and Peter began to realize just how sore and painful his head felt. He was lying on something hard, which he thought could only be the floor. A feeling of revulsion rose in his chest, a sense of shame that he had allowed himself to behave in such a way.
Trying to open his eyes again, Peter finally managed to do so, although it took a great deal of energy and effort to manage it. His vision was bl
urred, seeing nothing more than indistinguishable shapes. The room was dark with only touches of light here and there. Managing to push himself up slowly, his hands flat on the floor, Peter heard himself groaning again, louder this time. The sound seemed to fill the room, filling his head as it buzzed around him. Where was he? What was it he had done? And just why had he allowed himself to drink so much that he could no longer remember precisely where he was?
Making to run his hands through his hair, Peter let out a shout of pain as his fingers touched something sticky—and very, very painful. Closing his eyes tightly against the waves of agony that ran through his head, Peter tentatively brushed against the left side of his scalp just above his ear. Pain lanced through him again, making his stomach roll with nausea. Had he been in a fight? No, surely, he could not have done something as foolish as all that! He was not that sort of gentleman. He was quiet, unobtrusive, and entirely without enemies. There was no reason for him to fight anyone.
A slow sense of panic began to rise up within Peter’s chest as he blinked rapidly, trying to bring some sort of sense to where he was and what he had been doing. He could not recall anything other than earlier last evening, when he had been preparing for the evening’s social activities. It had been Lord Winton’s ball, which he had been rather looking forward to. Closing his eyes tightly, Peter searched his memory, trying desperately to recall what he had seen and where he had been. Yes, he remembered that he had attended last evening, for he had greeted Lord Winters and then stepped into the ballroom itself. Having removed himself from Miss Ophelia Grey completely earlier that day, he had been looking forward to availing himself of the company presented to him by the younger debutantes, although Peter always found himself drawn to the quieter young ladies who were so often overlooked.