He said nothing, just waited.
She swallowed and did not let herself drop her gaze, even though that was what she so longed to do. She felt ashamed, and afraid, like the little girl who had stood before Rotherham all those years before. ‘My real name is Venetia Clandon.’
She felt his sudden, utter stillness.
‘You asked me once who Robert Clandon was to me. You thought he was my employer.’ But the truth would hurt him more than that ever could. ‘He is my half-brother.’ Her fingers were gripping so tight that they were chilled and bloodless. ‘We were both fathered illegitimately by the Duke of Rotherham, albeit on different women.’ She looked directly into his eyes. ‘I am Rotherham’s daughter, Francis.’
The silence roared louder than any condemnation could have.
His face was shadowed and unreadable in the candlelight.
‘So you were in this every bit as much as Clandon.’ Something in the way he said it made her shrivel with shame. ‘Crusaders on a mission of vengeance.’
‘It was nothing of vengeance.’
‘Justice, then, for the loss of such a loving father.’
‘Rotherham was not loving. He was cold and cruel and calculating in ways you could never imagine. Everything I said of him was true. And, yes, it was about justice. I believed you guilty of his murder, Francis, for pity’s sake! And no matter what I thought of the man who was my father, he did his duty by me. He took me in when my mother died, saw that I was raised. In the end, I could not refuse to do my duty by him. I owed him that at least.’
They looked at one another through the silence.
‘I should have realised. You have his eyes—pale and silver as moonlight.’
She glanced away, not wishing to own anything of Rotherham’s when he was everything that Linwood hated. But Rotherham’s blood ran in her veins and there was nothing that she could do about it. Besides, Rotherham’s blood was only half the story.
‘Although there is little in common between you and Clandon.’
‘Robert’s looks favour those of his mother. She was Rotherham’s housekeeper.’
‘How fortunate for you both.’ His tone was dead of inflection, as cold and emotionless as he was to the world at large. Neither of them had moved. They were standing so close she could feel the heat of his body scalding hers, feel the struggle of the emotions held so tightly suppressed between them.
There was nothing she could say to make it better. The ghost of Rotherham hung between them, and always would.
‘Rotherham openly acknowledged Clandon as his son. So why the big secret over you, Venetia?’
‘Rotherham would have acknowledged me. I did not wish him to do so.’
‘Were it known you were a duke’s daughter, even one born on the wrong side of the blanket, it would have done much to ease your path in life, just as it has done for Clandon.’
What he said was the truth. She was only where she was today because of Rotherham’s influence and intervention. But she could not bring herself to tell him the rest of it, not that it mattered—to Linwood the fact that she was Rotherham’s daughter was enough. ‘It was not about having Rotherham as a father.’ It took more than a father to produce a child.
‘Then what was it about?’
She gave a shrug as if the answer were of no great consequence, when in truth it was the one thing that had dictated every twist and turn she had taken upon the path of life. It was the spur that had driven her night and day in her determination to flee from it. She turned the conversation away from the danger of that avenue.
‘So now you know.’
The tension in the cell stretched so tight that she could barely breathe. She felt sick with the dread of his condemnation, of the situation to which she had brought them both.
‘I do,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘And it need not influence our plans.’
She gaped at him in disbelief. ‘You wish to marry me, even knowing that I am the bastard of the man you hated so much? A man who hurt someone close to you so badly that you are willing to hang to protect them?’ The blunt vulgar truth resonated in all its shocking audacity between them.
‘I will send word of the day.’ His expression was closed, hiding what he was feeling, but the look in his eyes was dark and angry.
To marry the man that she loved while knowing how he must hate her...to endure his contempt for the rest of her life... Prison seemed almost preferable. She glanced away, feeling her chest ache where her heart lay bruised and bleeding. But this was not about her. This was about saving Linwood from the noose she had tied around his neck.
‘Be ready, Venetia.’
She nodded. Finally, he released her from his gaze. She had betrayed an innocent man, in more ways than one. A great wave of guilt flooded through her. She should have listened to her heart, she thought. Her heart had always known. She turned quickly away, knocking on the door of the cell to summon the turnkeys, before she weakened and betrayed herself by starting to weep.
When the door swung open she did not look back at him. Just walked out of the cell, out of the prison, leaving behind the man that she loved, the man she would marry, the man she had condemned.
Chapter Seventeen
Contrary to her expectation Venetia did not hear from Linwood the next day, or the one after that or even the next again. The days passed and the calendar crept closer to the date of the trial, so close that she feared he had changed his mind and could not bring himself to marry her after all, or that something had gone terribly wrong. She wanted to go to the prison again, to see him, to know what was happening, anything other than this turmoil of imaginings and doubts and fears. But her pride would not let her and she resigned herself to her original plan of refusing to speak as a witness at his trial. She did not know if she felt better or worse at the prospect of prison, only that she was the sole barrier that stood between Linwood and the hangman’s noose, and even then she was not certain that by refusing to speak she could undo what she had set in motion. And all her dreams and all her waking hours were locked within that nightmare.
The letter finally arrived two days before the trial. The familiar hand that had penned her direction, so strong and bold, made her heart skip a beat. She slipped the letter into her pocket before Alice’s watchful eyes and did not trust herself to open it until she was alone in her bedchamber. Her hands were shaking as she finally broke the seal and unfolded the thick-laid paper embossed with his crest.
His words were scant, the message brief: Tomorrow at the eleventh hour. It was signed L.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming...and transient. Tomorrow. Her stomach clenched tight at the prospect of what that day would bring.
A knock sounded before the door opened.
‘Venetia?’ Alice stood there, her face creased in concern.
‘You had better sit down, Alice. There are some things that I have to tell you.’
* * *
The next morning Venetia and Alice sat together in Razeby’s unmarked carriage as it carried them towards Newgate. Venetia had not slept at all since Linwood’s letter. Not for one minute of that long dark night. And yet this morning, on the way to her wedding, she felt strangely calm. She was wearing a sober plain afternoon dress of dark forest-green beneath a dark cloak and her hair was pinned up in a classical and tidy style. She wore only a pair of single, white drop-pearl earrings and not one other piece of jewellery. Hardly an outfit for a wedding, but she had no mind to tip off anyone who might be watching of what was about to take place. She dared risk nothing that might jeopardise the ceremony.
Alice glanced across at Razeby and bit at her lip before leaning close to Venetia and saying in a low, hesitant voice, ‘It’s not too late to change your mind, Venetia.’
Razeby must have heard Alice trying to persuade her against marrying his friend, but he made no comment. His usual smiling demeanour was gone. He looked almost as cold and serious as Linwood himself. There could be no doubting the gravity of Linwoo
d’s position.
Venetia swallowed and carefully smoothed a wrinkle in her beige kid-leather gloves, such a small foolish detail over which to fuss given the magnitude of that in which they were enmeshed. The danger and desperation, the bald fact that Linwood’s life was at stake. She did not let herself think of what would happen if they failed in this venture...or, indeed, what, if they succeeded; just kept her thoughts still and her mind focused on doing what she knew she must. Even now she was playing the role of Miss Fox, even now pretending that she was cool and unaffected by what was happening. Even when both Alice and Razeby knew the truth—of her name and her feelings.
‘You know that I am not going to change my mind.’ They had been through the argument a hundred times since yesterday.
She heard again through her head Alice’s questions. What if you’ve got this all wrong, Venetia? All the evidence supports his guilt. What if it’s right and he really is the man that shot a bullet into your father’s head?
And her own answers, adamant and determined in their faith. He did not do it, Alice. It was against all logic, against all evidence to the contrary, but she felt the truth of it in the marrow of her bones and every beat of her heart.
And even were she wrong, it made no difference. She could not hang him.
* * *
Linwood was alone in the cell when they arrived. He had shaved the stubble from his face and his clothes were clean and as well presented as if his valet had dressed him. Just one glance at him and it was as if she had forgotten how devastatingly handsome he was, how very much he affected her...and how very much she loved him. She felt her heart miss a beat, felt the slight catch in her breath at the sight of him.
‘Miss Fox,’ he said coolly as if they weren’t just about to marry, then diverted his glance momentarily to Alice. ‘Miss Sweetly.’ He nodded at his friend. ‘Razeby.’ And then his eyes met hers again and she glimpsed the passion and intensity and emotion smouldering in their dark depths. He could hide what he was from the world, but not from her. The awareness of him tingled through every inch of her being. They were connected on some underlying intrinsic level, attuned, bound. What they were about to do was about saving him, nothing more. How could it be anything else after all that had happened, and all that she was? But beneath it were all the complexities of betrayal and deception...and of love and longing. There always had been.
The cell door opened and his father, the Earl of Misbourne, entered the cell and by his side was a tall thin man, dressed in the robes of a priest, a small battered black-leather book clutched in his hands. The sight of the priest slammed home to her the reality of what she was about to do.
The priest was a man older than Misbourne and he looked distinctly nervous, which was not surprising given how the authorities were liable to interpret the reason for the marriage. Venetia wondered if he had been coerced into being here. One look at the expression on Misbourne’s face and she knew that there were not many men who would argue with the earl.
The priest’s long bony fingers opened the book at a page marked by a thin red strip of ribbon. His eyes met hers, and she was not sure what it was she saw in them—curiosity, disapproval, pity? She refused to look away, to be cowed or ashamed in any way, just met his gaze with all of Miss Fox’s brazen confidence. It was the priest’s gaze that faltered, pretending to find his place on the page. She angled her head high and walked to stand by Linwood’s left side, but she did not look at him again, nor he at her.
‘Proceed,’ Linwood commanded the priest.
The priest began to speak. Words that would bind them together in law and in the eyes of God. Words that could not be undone. Words that would save Linwood from the unspeakable fate to which she had condemned him.
She gave her responses, as calmly, as unemotionally as Linwood himself, acting a part to hide the storm of emotions within her. Only when Linwood took her left hand within his and slipped his ring onto her finger did she betray herself a little. His hand was warm against the ice of her own, his touch light, but possessive as it closed over the tremble that beset her fingers. She did not dare look up into his face, lest the sight of those dark eyes break the fragile threads of her control.
The priest’s voice sounded again, speaking words which she did not hear. All she was aware of was the touch of Linwood’s fingers against her chin, turning her face to his, of the dark intensity in his eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, of the heat and passion and promise in the meeting of their lips. He kissed her as if they were alone in the prison cell, as if the priest, his father, Alice and Razeby were not standing so closely by, watching. He kissed her as if she were not Rotherham’s daughter, as if she had not betrayed him. And, God help her, she responded to him as if she were the wanton the world thought her. Only when he broke the kiss did she step away, opening up a distance between them.
‘It is done,’ the priest said.
‘Thank God,’ said Misbourne and she saw the way the hard expression dropped away and the relief and fear that lay beneath it.
‘Congratulations, old boy.’ Razeby said the words lightly as he shook his friend’s hand, but the look that passed between the two men betrayed the seriousness of the situation.
Alice put her arms around Venetia and dropped a peck of a kiss to her cheek, but she could not bring herself to offer congratulations.
No one wished them happy. No one thought there could ever be any chance of that. And, absurd though it was, that small ridiculous omission made Venetia want to cry.
‘Let’s get you home,’ Alice said and slipped her arm through Venetia’s.
Venetia did not let herself look at Linwood. She feared that if she looked at him she really would weep. She fastened her cloak around her shoulders and began to follow Alice across the cell, as the tread of the priest’s steps fell in behind them.
‘Venetia.’ Linwood’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
She felt the shiver run all the way down her spine. Felt her stomach flip-flop, because she knew even before she turned what he was going to say. She closed her eyes, tried to gather herself, but it was no good. Her pulse kicked to a gallop. Her heart thumped hard as a hammer in her chest as she faced him.
‘If the marriage is not consummated, it can be annulled.’
‘You are surely not expecting her to...’ Alice’s voice died away in horror and indignation. ‘Not in this place.’
‘They will use any objection they can to invalidate this marriage,’ said Misbourne.
The silence was loud within the cell.
She could feel the pressure of Alice’s fingers against her forearm. ‘You don’t have to do this, Venetia.’
‘Linwood is right. And...I want to do this properly.’ Yet the thought of what must come after the ceremony, obvious though it was, had not occurred to her. Despite a lifetime in the demi-monde and being proclaimed England’s most beddable woman. Despite the blood that flowed in her veins. She smiled wryly at the irony.
She looked past the pity on Alice’s face and gestured to where Razeby was standing in silence. ‘Razeby will see you home, Alice.’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ said the marquis. His eyes met Venetia’s fleetingly and she saw something of understanding and respect. There was very much more to Razeby beneath his usual image.
She watched them all leave. And even when the door had closed behind them she did not turn round to Linwood.
He made not one sound, but it seemed to Venetia that she could feel his every breath in her own lungs, feel the thrum of his blood through her own veins, feel the beat of his heart in her own chest.
The door clanged shut and the jangle and scrape of the key turning in the lock was loud in the silence.
‘We cannot wait until nightfall, Venetia.’ His words were unhurried, cold, clinical, yet she could hear the faint undertone of something else. ‘News of our marriage will spread quickly. It would be expedient to have closed the loophole before any man of law can arrive.’ As if it were some legal
process to be completed rather than an intimate act of lovemaking between two people.
‘I understand.’ She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Her fingers were calm and methodical as they moved to unfasten the pearl buttons that ran in a line down the back of her bodice. Those she struggled to reach, Linwood dealt with, before stepping away again. She peeled the dress from her shoulders and, with the help of a little shrug, it slid down her body to land in a heap around her ankles. The single petticoat, and thin silken shift beneath, clung to the voluptuous curves of her body.
She made no sign of having heard the harsh intake of his breath. Her fingers plucked at the ties, allowing both to slither down in the wake of her dress. She stepped free of the clothing pooled around her feet and, reaching up, plucked the pins from her hair, so that the tight pinned coils unwound, to spill long and free and beckoning, over her shoulders. The fullness of her breasts nosed through the long curling strands of hair, the pale flesh so stark in contrast to the ebony of her hair, the rose-pink tips already defined and taut.
He could not help his eyes from tracing every line of that hourglass body, the roundness of her breasts, following in to the slender waist and soft womanly belly, and out to the curve of her hips. And despite everything of their situation, despite that he was a man used to wielding a control of iron over his feelings and desires, and the fact that the turnkeys were undoubtedly listening at the door, his body’s reaction was as uncontrolled and immediate as if he were still in his salad days.
The grille within the door slid open suddenly and the face of a turnkey leered in.
Venetia must have heard the opening of the grille, but she did not look round, just stood there, with her head held high, naked save for her white silken shoes and stockings.
However, Linwood moved swiftly to block the lecherous little man’s view before he had a chance to see what every man in London had wanted all these years, producing a wad of notes from his pocket, to dangle before the guard’s face.
Dicing With the Dangerous Lord Page 20