by Amy Corwin
Her delay changed his professed sorrow to aggravation, and he gave her a strong shove.
Unbalanced by the weight of the child, Dorothy fell into her sister. The room—closet, really—was so small that the three of them tumbled against the far wall before they could right themselves.
The door slammed behind them. Dorothy heard the sound of a key clicking in the lock. Smothered by darkness, Dorothy released the girl and turned, her hands touching the walls on both sides. The only light was a thin line of pale gray streaming beneath the door and a fainter one filtering through the lock of the door. She leaned a shoulder against one wall before she slid down to the floor. There was barely enough room for them to sit with the child in Dorothy’s lap.
“What happened?” she asked Grace, trying not to panic as she eyed the door.
Grace sniffed, choking back a sob. “It’s my fault—I should have left well enough alone. That’s what Martha always used to say, is it not? And she was right, as she always is. I should never have gone to Mr. Cavell’s shop. That poor girl—she would have been better off if I left her, stealing food from Mrs. Cavell. Oh, why did I have to interfere? Why?!”
“It is not your fault, dearest,” Dorothy said, awkwardly trying to reassure her sister in the dark. After tapping her nose and cheek, she finally found what she thought was Grace’s shoulder. She gave it a small squeeze. “Clearly, Uncle Cyril is quite mad.”
“And I dragged both you and this poor child here!”
“Well, you didn’t drag me here, I dragged myself. So you can’t take all the blame. Never mind, though. We shall escape, one way or the other.”
“How? What if Aunt Mary is helping him? Perhaps the entire family is mad!” Grace’s voice rose shrilly.
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they are, but I shouldn’t let it worry me. We just need to open this door before he returns. There is no doubt that he will wait until it is dark. Though even then, how he proposes to throw three people into the Thames without anyone noticing anything peculiar is beyond me,” Dorothy said bracingly. “Here, will you take her?” She shifted the child onto Grace’s lap. “I want to check the lock.”
“What if he’s out there?”
“What if he is?” Dorothy shrugged, groping in the darkness for the brass knob. “The element of surprise works both ways.”
“He might shoot you!”
“Well, if he does, you must run as fast as you can and fetch the Watch. It shall take him a minute or more to reload his pistol, and you can use that to your advantage.”
“I can’t leave you—I will not!”
“Don’t be a dolt, dearest. Of course you will. Now be quiet, will you?” She felt the top of her head, her fingertips searching for a particular pin—the one that was currently digging into her scalp.
She and her sister both had hairpins keeping their hair neatly coiled on their heads, so if she ruined one pin, they had many more. She removed the most annoying pin and tilted her head. Her hair remained firmly in place. Not that it mattered, but it would be nice if, when the authorities arrived, the only person who looked like a lunatic, with goggling eyes and wild hair, was her uncle.
As she twisted the flimsy pin in the lock, she reflected that the longer pin which had held her bonnet in place might be useful, as well. Although she hadn’t thought about it in time to prevent their confinement, she could also use one as a weapon when Uncle Cyril returned. She read a dreadful story once where a madwoman had killed her husband by stabbing a hat pin into the nape of his neck.
Not that she wished to emulate her, but it remained a possibility.
They were far from dead yet. There was still hope. At least she prayed there was as she futilely jabbed and jiggled her hairpin in the recalcitrant lock.
Chapter Thirteen
“I am sorry, my lord, but I can’t let you in!” the thin, little maid exclaimed, standing behind the heavy front door and peering at him around the edge.
He thrust his booted foot in the crack. “Mr. Polkinghorne will see me. I am sure of it.”
“But he won’t, my lord! They’re at supper—all of them—and not to be disturbed.” She threw her paltry weight against the door to shut it. “I must go! They’ll be expecting their pudding. Please, my lord!”
Dinner? He must have guessed incorrectly, after all. If Polkinghorne was sitting down to supper, it was unlikely that he was a murderer, planning on making Cynthia’s death final this time, right after he had his brandy and cigar.
The door pressed against his foot, but he barely felt it. Should he join Gaunt at Eburne’s flat instead? He glanced at the carriage waiting for him in the street.
No. He was here. He would speak to Polkinghorne and determine if Miss Grace Stainton had returned here, or if he knew where she’d gone.
“I fear that does not please me in the least. Show me into the library. I shall wait there until Mr. Polkinghorne has had his pudding.” He pushed the door open, forcing the maid back into the hallway.
Her gaze darted about, her face pale, and her nervous hands continually smoothing over the front of her apron. “But he’s not to be disturbed, my lord. He said so before supper. He told me he was not to be bothered this evening. He has business to attend to. Urgent business.”
“Business?” Marcus asked sharply.
“Business.” She nodded. “That’s what he said, my lord. Urgent business. He left papers on his desk in the library and locked the door so as not to have them disturbed. I expect it was something he didn’t want Mrs. Polkinghorne to see.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide in her pale face. Clearly, she’d said more than she ought to have done.
“Never mind. I will wait in the drawing room, instead.” He strode in the direction of the grand staircase. He’d have preferred to simply walk into the dining room, but even his sense of urgency kept him from taking that drastic step. He’d look like a fool if he were wrong. “Tell Mr. Polkinghorne that I await him.”
“But I…” She stared at him, aghast. Her gaze drifted toward the elaborately carved double doors that presumably led to the dining room.
He stopped with one foot on the lowest stair. “Is Miss Grace Stainton at supper as well?”
“Miss Grace?” she repeated.
“Yes. Miss Grace.”
“No—same as I told Miss Stainton.” She flushed.
“Told Miss Stainton?” Enlightenment flashed. The third sister must have come for a visit.
The maid nodded.
“Where is she? Is she at supper with the Polkinghornes?”
“No, my lord. I haven’t seen her—she must have left.”
Marcus studied the maid. Something was not quite right. If the third sister had come to visit, why had she left instead of joining her aunt and uncle for dinner?
“To which Miss Stainton are you referring, miss?” he asked gently.
“Miss Dorothy—the one as is your wife now—Lady Arundell, my lord.” Elsa bobbed a quick curtsey, her gaze drifting to the dining room door again.
His wife? Guilt bit him between the shoulder blades like a hungry horsefly. He shouldn’t have left her so abruptly. What must she think? Married and deserted in one day… He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up at the first floor landing. What was she doing here? Had she forgotten something? Or worse, was she lonely and regretting their union?
“And she left?” he asked.
“She must have—she’s not here. Nor her sister, neither.”
A door rattled further down the hallway on his right. The library door. He caught the maid’s startled glance.
Just then, the dining room doors flew open.
“Elsa! What are you doing out here?” Mrs. Polkinghorne stood in the doorway.
The maid’s frightened glance flicked to Marcus and then back to her mistress. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Polkinghorne. I heard the door.”
Following the girl’s gaze, Mrs. Polkinghorne’s eyes widened. “My lord! Why are you here? Is something amiss?”<
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“Mary! Where is that blasted girl? What are you doing there?” Polkinghorne appeared next to his wife.
His mouth thinned, and he started to speak, only to notice Marcus. “My lord!” His startled exclamation echoed his wife’s words. He recovered his wits quickly. “Elsa, why did you not inform us that Lord Arundell had arrived?”
Elsa’s mouth dropped open. “You weren’t to be disturbed—you said—”
“Yes, I know what I said.” Polkinghorne chuckled. “Come in, my lord. Perhaps you would care to join us?”
“Thank you, but I have already eaten.” Marcus stepped away from the staircase and moved toward the dining room. “Perhaps I may speak with you after you finish your supper?”
“Oh, we have quite finished already,” Polkinghorne said as he joined him.
“But the pudding…” Mrs. Polkinghorne complained, the corners of her mouth drooping. She gazed into the dining room over her shoulder.
Clearly, she objected to missing her favorite part of the meal.
“Would you care to join me in the…” Ignoring his wife, Polkinghorne took a step toward the hallway leading to the library and then stopped abruptly. His eyes flickered before he smiled and held out his arm, gesturing to the staircase. “We shall be more comfortable in the drawing room, I believe. Elsa, bring us a tray with brandy and a few slices of cake. Shall we, my lord?”
Marcus turned.
A sudden clatter of running feet echoed down the marble hallway from the direction of the library.
Dorothy slid to a halt, her hand shooting out to clutch the newel post and keep from falling. Another woman—Grace—bumped into her from behind.
“Marcus!” Dorothy gasped.
“Dorothy—what—” He broke off. A movement made him step in front of her and glance over his shoulder.
Face set in a gray mask, Polkinghorne faced them, a dueling pistol gripped in his hand. “How unfortunate,” he murmured. “And needless. This should never have happened. Particularly not to you, my dearest Dorothy.” His eyes glimmered with madness.
“Dorothy!” Mrs. Polkinghorne shrieked, her hands fisting at her sides. “This is all her fault! You think of nothing else—no one else! Just her…” A sharp sob broke her voice, and she covered her face with her hands.
“Put that thing down,” Marcus ordered, ensuring that he was between Polkinghorne and the women. The final pieces of the sad puzzle fell into place. “What do you hope to accomplish? You have but one shot.”
“That is all I require.” His gaze traveled beyond Marcus’s shoulder, back to Marcus, and then to his wife.”
“Cyril!” Mrs. Polkinghorne exclaimed, lifting her head. “You cannot be so foolish—what are you doing?”
“Be quiet, woman! Must you always be so useless?” A fierce concentration wrinkled Polkinghorne’s brow. He looked at his wife, contempt clear in his eyes. “A useless old hag. At least Dorothy proved sensible, despite her youth. And she’s still beautiful. Well, a wife cannot testify, Mary. One bullet—for you, my lord—and I can still… Yes. I can still make a clean sweep. No mistakes this time.”
Dorothy gripped Marcus’s sleeve and peered around his shoulder. “You cannot do it, Uncle Cyril. If you shoot Lord Arundell, two of us remain, and you cannot fight all of us.”
“She’s right, Polkinghorne.” Marcus stretched out his arm to push Dorothy behind him. She may not have realized it, but her uncle had just revealed why he had wanted Marcus to marry Cecilia instead of Dorothy. Polkinghorne clearly had designs on his niece. The notion of him attempting to seduce Dorothy and make her his mistress made Marcus clench his jaw. He forced his voice to stay calm when he held out his left hand. “Give me the pistol. Let us discuss this like intelligent men—”
“Intelligent men?” Polkinghorne snorted. His gaze grew wilder, flicking from one person to the next, a pale ring forming around his thin mouth with the dawning realization that he was trapped despite his plans.
“Elsa, fetch the constable,” Mrs. Polkinghorne said, startling all of them. Her chin rose. “You may think I cannot testify against you, but I assure you that my testimony shall scarcely be required with so many witnesses. For the life of me, I cannot understand why you have suddenly decided to take leave of your senses in this ridiculous fashion.” She sniffed. “And you will see how pretty your darling Dorothy is after bearing children and suffering your attentions for so many years!”
Marcus took another step forward. Five yards and he could wrest the pistol from Polkinghorne’s grasp.
Polkinghorne’s head jerked in his direction, his eyes locking onto him. “I loved Eleanor, you know, and Dorothy is so much like her in so many ways… More sensible, perhaps, but like her. She said if only she were free… Free! Well, I made her free, for all the good it did me.” An expressionless mask dropped over his face.
Staring unseeing into Marcus’s eyes, he suddenly raised the pistol.
Marcus took a jerking step forward.
Polkinghorne put the barrel between his teeth and pulled the trigger.
The explosion shattered the quiet night. The sound seemed to go on and on.
When at last it died away, shrill, startled screams rose in waves. The shrieks reverberated through the hallway.
Chapter Fourteen
The front door burst open. Still in the grip of shock, Dorothy let out a sharp scream. She stepped back, bumping into someone who squealed into her ear. Before she could stop herself, she yelped again even as she realized it was her sister behind her. Grace put a hand on Dorothy’s arm and gently pushed her forward.
A tall, dark man ran into the hallway, followed by another man. A very short, very round man, dressed in the most violent yellow-and-brown checked jacket and trousers that she had ever seen.
“What, what, what?” The plump man moved lightly on the balls of his feet, edging around the taller man who Dorothy finally recognized as Mr. Gaunt. The stranger’s round hazel eyes widened, and he backed until he hit a narrow table against the wall. A letter fluttered to the marble floor. All the while, he continued to murmur his incessant, “What, what, what…?” Bending awkwardly, he picked up the letter. His plump hands fluttered before his left gripped the edge of the table and his right gripped the letter. “What, what, what?” he repeated, parrot-like, apparently incapable of speaking coherently.
“Lord Arundell!” Mr. Gaunt exclaimed, coming to an abrupt halt. His gaze locked on the crumpled body in the center of the hallway. He glanced at Marcus before he looked quickly around, catching Dorothy’s gaze. “I heard a shot—what has happened?” He focused on Marcus again. “Are you injured, my lord?”
Marcus took a step forward, his face as white as parchment. “No,” he answered abruptly before turning to Dorothy.
Before she could move, he pulled her into his arms, cradled the back of her head and pressed her face into his neck, knocking her bonnet askew. Almost strangled by the ribbon, she clutched him, not caring about anything except the feel of his arms around her. For the first time in what seemed like hours, she felt safe. The deep thud of his heart pounded against her cheek. She relaxed into the warmth and strength enveloping her, breathing deeply and trying to control her trembling when she exhaled.
The pattering of feet and swish of silken skirts made her glance around his shoulder.
With a moan, Aunt Mary rushed forward. Her hands covered her mouth, and her knees bent as if to kneel beside her husband. She wavered. A small screech escaped her before she lowered her face into her hands and backed away, unable to bring herself to step into the pool of blood surrounding her husband.
Shaking, Dorothy buried her face again in Marcus’s shoulder. How could he? What would they do now? What would Aunt Mary do? Their poor cousins… Her thoughts whirled, useless as dead leaves rattling in a cold autumn breeze. She ought to go to her, ought to offer her aunt some support, but she couldn’t leave Marcus’s secure embrace.
“What has happened?” Mr. Gaunt asked as he knelt on one knee to p
lace his handkerchief over Cyril’s devastated head.
Though Marcus kept an arm around her, he turned with a reluctance she could feel in the tightening of his muscles. “He shot himself.” His terse words sounded harsh.
“What choice did he have?” Aunt Mary cried, lifting her head out of her hands to glare at Marcus. “What choice did you give him? You ruined him—ruined us all!” She pointed at Dorothy. “And you! This is your fault! I should never have allowed him to bring you here—give you Cecilia’s room—none of that was my doing!”
Dorothy shuddered and felt Marcus’s arm tighten around her. She didn’t want to think about her uncle or his unnatural feelings.
Her hands gripped her husband’s lapels as a deep welling of emotion shook her breath. He was the one she wanted to think about. She loved him so much she ached with the feeling. Whatever he felt for her, it couldn’t change the strength of the bond she experienced now, drawing them together in the midst of this horror.
“He made his decision,” Marcus ground out. His voice rumbled in his chest.
A sob wracked Aunt Mary. She shook her head before burying her face in her hands once more. Another quick patter of feet sounded before Cecilia and Jane ran out of the dining room and threw themselves at their mother. The three women clutched each other, wailing, while Stephen entered the hallway. He stood, pale-faced, gripping the edge of the dining room door.
“What, what, what?” the portly man babbled again. “I say, what has happened here?”
Marcus released Dorothy and pushed her gently away, although he kept a warm hand resting in the middle of her back. “Eburne—what are you doing here?”
“What, wh—” He clamped his mouth shut, stopping with an effort. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of a pond, he cleared his throat. The letter in his right hand protested crisply as his fingers tightened around it. “Thought I—” Mouth drooping unhappily, he waved at Cyril’s body. “Well, when Mr. Gaunt asked me, I had to admit it.” He broke off and lifted his hands, palms up. Creases formed on his round face as he caught sight of the letter. He frowned and smoothed it out before glancing up. His eyes widened as if hearing his words echo in his mind. His little, plump hands fluttered again, waving the letter through the air. “No, no, no—not admit. I had always feared this, you see. He was so angry—always so angry. Couldn’t see she was simply amusing herself. Eleanor was a sweet woman, of course, but she did enjoy her little amusements. One, of course, understands these things. Though he…not good. Not good at all. And the little child—such a tragedy.” He straightened and tried to tug his waistcoat down over his rotund belly, but the letter frustrated him. Walking lightly for such a plump man, he edged over to Dorothy, shoved the letter into her hand, and squared his plump shoulders. An almost noble expression gripped his face, his hazel eyes serious. “I had no proof—just suspicion—but I could not allow this to continue. Not when Mr. Gaunt explained your search for the child.” He sighed. “I hoped… I thought if I confronted him, he would finally admit the truth.”