Razeby shook his head. ‘It did not feel right to stay over last night, not given the circumstance.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘I’ll visit Alice after this.’ He paused. ‘I take it you will be coming with me.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell Miss Fox you will call upon her later, then?’
‘I will not call upon her, either now or later.’
‘But I thought...’
‘Then you thought wrong.’
There was a silence
‘Forgive me, Razeby.’ Linwood met his friend’s gaze. ‘I am poor company of late.’
‘Somewhat understandable, old chap.’
Linwood took a sip of his brandy. ‘I am sure that Miss Sweetly will look after her.’
‘No doubt,’ said Razeby. He gestured down towards the group of reporters collected on the pavement outside Linwood’s front door. ‘How long have they been there?’
Linwood followed his glance with eyes that were still raw from last night’s heat and smoke. ‘Since dawn.’
‘They think she is in here with you.’
He said nothing, but he felt the flicker of the muscle in his jaw.
‘I take it from that you did not get much sleep.’
‘Things on my mind...as ever,’ said Linwood quietly. Venetia Fox. What was between them. Robert Clandon. Rotherham.
He could feel Razeby’s eyes studying him, but he did not look round.
‘You should try to get some rest,’ Razeby said.
‘When I have figured out something of this mess.’
The two of them moved to sit by the fire and finish their drinks before Razeby took his leave.
Linwood knew he should just let him go, should keep his mouth shut and say nothing. His friend was halfway across the room on his way out when he spoke. ‘Razeby...’
Razeby stopped, his eyes meeting Linwood’s.
Linwood hesitated, knowing that his words would betray something of his heart. ‘You will let me know how she is?’
Razeby gave a nod. ‘Of course I will,’ he said softly.
Linwood moved to the window and watched Razeby leave. Only once his friend’s carriage was out of sight did he turn away.
The room was very quiet. There was no noise save for the ticking of the clock. He poured himself another brandy and moved to the bookcase, letting his eyes meander over the leather-bound volumes, before they came to focus on one book in particular.
He could not regret that Rotherham was dead, no matter what else ensued from it. His eyes rose to the painting of the racehorse and he thought of the safe box that lay behind it, and Venetia, and the night he had loved her. He could not be in here without the memory haunting him so he rang the bell for his man and ordered his carriage be readied to take him to White’s.
* * *
‘Venetia?’
Venetia glanced up from where she sat staring into the fire to find Alice standing there, her friend’s eyes moving over the untouched dinner tray.
‘You’ve eaten nothing.’
Venetia shook her head. ‘I have no appetite.’ The dread was lying in her stomach, making it heavy and nauseous.
‘You’ve not moved in the hours since Clandon left.’
She swallowed, pulling the dressing gown around her. ‘I find my mind a little preoccupied.’ Linwood had known all along. And all that she had believed that night in his rooms to be, all that she had thought she saw in his eyes and felt as his body loved hers, was illusion. He had taken from her all that she had to give—her trust, her body, her heart—as the fitting conclusion to a game. She was still reeling from the knowledge, still crushed from the realisation that she was every bit as foolish and weak as her mother had been, in loving a man that held her only in contempt.
‘It’s little wonder given how close we came to losing you.’ Alice sat down on the sofa beside her.
But it was not that which held her rigid.
He tried to kill you, Venetia. She squeezed her eyes shut as Robert’s words whispered through her head. But all she saw then was the look in Linwood’s eyes when he had saved her from the fire, so vivid that it made her heart wrench even sitting here in this room with Alice. He had spoken not one word to her. Just set her down and walked away.
‘You’re pale as a ghost.’ Alice frowned in concern and took one of Venetia’s clenched hands in her own. ‘And cold as ice. It’s the shock setting in from last night. I came to tell you that an officer from Bow Street has called to speak to you about the fire. But I’ll tell him to come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.’ Alice made to rise.
‘Please wait,’ Venetia said quietly and stayed her friend with a light touch to her arm. Her throat tightened. She knew Robert would act if she did not. And she knew what that would mean.
‘I’ll wait,’ Alice said calmly and sat back down by her side.
Everyone would know her secret. Everyone would know what she really was. She remembered the look in Linwood’s eyes as he had admitted setting the fire and the hatred in his voice when he spoke of Rotherham. And that he had known she was working to entrap him. Oh, God... There was not really any decision to be made.
Robert had been right—Linwood was guilty. Everyone who had warned her had been right—he was dangerous. And yet still she hesitated.
‘Venetia...’ Alice said softly. ‘The day’s almost done.’
Her heart turned over. The last grains of sand slipped through the hourglass. Time had run out for Venetia.
* * *
Linwood was in White’s, sitting with Razeby the next day, when the Bow Street officers came through the door. He knew before they even looked his way that they had come for him.
‘At last,’ he murmured softly and felt relief that it was finally over. There would be no more searching, no more questions or investigation.
‘Lord Linwood, you are under arrest, charged with the murder of his Grace, the Duke of Rotherham.’
He finished the last of his brandy from his glass, then got to his feet.
‘I say, you cannot just come in here and—’ Razeby started to protest.
‘Leave it, Razeby,’ Linwood said quietly. ‘These gentlemen are here with a job to do.’ He made no resistance as they placed the cuffs around his wrists.
‘Linwood?’ Razeby whispered and there was a look of shock in his eyes. The whole of the club was on its feet, watching while they led him out to the gaol cart. The buzz of voices gave way to an utter silence.
There was already something of a crowd waiting out on the pavement as they opened the black doors of the cart, placing him inside on the bare wooden bench like some common criminal. The straw that lined the floor was damp and dirty. The door slammed shut, the key scraping loud within it. There was the jangle of keys.
‘Francis!’ He heard the echo of shock in the familiar voice.
He turned his head to look through the bars of the tiny window and saw his father’s face there, grey and horrified.
‘Son?’ his father whispered.
And when he looked into his father’s eyes that were so like his own, he saw understanding.
* * *
Venetia got through the next days like an automaton. Life was going on around her. There was someone called Venetia Fox living in that house with Alice, but it was not her. Venetia Fox was safe, both the charade she presented to the world, and the real woman beneath it, or so she told herself again and again, except that it did not seem to make her feel any better. There was a sick feeling in her stomach that would not go away and a coldness in her bones that nothing seemed to warm. She lay in the bed each night and could not sleep. She ate and the food turned to sawdust on her tongue. The pile of books and fashion journals Alice brought lay in a neat pile untouched on the table. She sat at night and stared
into the flames of the fire and could not stop thinking of Linwood.
Alice took her to Madame Boisseron’s and coaxed her to order a wardrobe of clothes to replace the ones lost in the fire, but the finest of silks were as sackcloth on her skin. She agreed to whatever designs Alice and the dress designer suggested. And when Madame Boisseron held a new green silk to her face and they placed her before the peering mirror, she could not bear to look at herself.
All the days seemed to run together. Venetia did not know how many or few had passed since Linwood’s arrest. She sat on the sofa in Alice’s little upstairs sitting room, letting the tea grow cold in the tea cup on the table before her.
‘They’re still out there,’ Alice said from where she stood by the side of the window, sipping her tea and looking down at the crowd of journalists camped outside the front of her house.
‘Are they?’ Venetia did not even look round. Her voice was calm, empty of emotion and interest. Her eyes were trained on the low flicker of flames upon the hearth.
‘It’s ridiculous! You’d think the vultures would grow tired of the wait and go home to their wives.’
Venetia said nothing.
Alice walked over to Venetia, hesitating as her eye ranged over the barely touched tea to the newspaper that lay at the top of the pile. The paper’s front page showed a sketch of Venetia and a bold headline. She placed her cup and saucer on the table and threw the newspaper into the fire before sitting down by Venetia’s side. ‘Razeby shouldn’t have left that in here.’
Venetia did not need to read the paper’s headline to know what it said. She had read the words a hundred times, poking at a wound that would not heal.
Murderous Lord Linwood caught by pillow confession to his mistress, the divine Miss Fox.
‘I did try to warn you about him.’ There was nothing of gloating in Alice’s words, only genuine concern.
‘You did.’ Venetia did not look round at her friend.
‘Did he really confess to setting the fire at Rotherham’s house all those years ago?’
Venetia nodded and could not take her eyes from the coil and writhe of the newspaper as it turned black and disintegrated in the flames. It did not matter that it was destroyed—had she a pencil in her hand she could reproduce the whole article letter by letter, word by damning word.
‘The newspapers are saying he started the fire at yours, too.’
She said nothing.
‘You did the right thing, Venetia.’
‘Did I?’ she whispered.
‘Of course you did.’
‘Then why does it feel so wrong?’ she asked, and still her eyes lingered on the newspaper, even though all that now remained of it was the pale delicate wafers of ash.
Alice stared at her.
‘Had it been Razeby, would you have gone to the police?’
‘I don’t know.’ Alice admitted. ‘Besides, it’s different with the way it is between me and Razeby.’
‘Perhaps not so different as you think,’ Venetia whispered.
There was a silence punctuated only by the tick of
Alice’s clock on the mantel.
‘But it’s not true what they printed about you being Linwood’s mistress,’ Alice said quietly. ‘Is it?’
Venetia gave a sad hiccup of a laugh. The irony of the truth rammed the blade all the harder into her heart. ‘No, I am not his mistress.’
‘You didn’t stay the night with him?’
There was a small silence.
‘I did.’
‘You slept with him?’ There was incredulity in those words. ‘But I thought...’
Venetia looked round into her friend’s face for the first time. ‘I love him, Alice.’
Alice stared at her, gaping with shock. ‘But you can’t, not after all that he’s done. He tried to kill you, for God’s sake!’
Venetia swallowed, but it did nothing to alleviate the hard lump lodged within her throat or the ache in her heart. Her gaze flitted back to stare at the flames.
The silence hissed.
‘I’m sorry, I never thought...’ Alice whispered and Venetia could hear the pity in her voice. ‘Not Linwood of all men.’
‘My mother once told me that we cannot choose whom we fall in love with. And she was right.’
She felt Alice take her hand in hers.
The clock ticked. Outside, life went on as normal.
‘If you only knew, Alice, the whole sordid truth of it.’
‘Oh, Venetia,’ Alice whispered and hugged her. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
Venetia closed her eyes, pulled the shutter down in her mind. Then she drew back and looked at Alice. ‘I will go back to work tomorrow.’
‘It’s too soon.’
‘I need to work, Alice. I cannot stay hiding here for ever. I have to carry on. The theatre, acting—it is all that I have. How else am I to survive?’
‘I can lend you something if you need—’
But Venetia shook her head. It was not money to which she was referring. ‘I will look for a new house, too. My presence here makes it difficult for you and Razeby.’
‘Razeby understands. He’s good like that. There’s no rush for you to leave.’
‘Thank you, Alice. You are a good friend to me.’ But they both knew that she would leave as soon as she could.
* * *
‘Visitors for you, your lordship!’ The turnkey’s voice rang out before there was the scrape of the key in the lock and the Newgate Prison cell door swung open.
Linwood was already on his feet, waiting in expectation. But it was not his father who was ushered into the cell. Instead, he saw his sister and her husband.
‘What the hell are you thinking of, bringing her here?’ he growled at his brother-in-law, Rafe Knight.
‘Please do not be angry with him, Francis.’ Marianne came to stand before him. ‘I told him that I would come here alone if he did not bring me. And I would have done.’
Linwood gave a sigh and swallowed. ‘You grow more stubborn since your marriage, little sister.’
‘I do.’ She smiled, but it was a sad smile. ‘Oh, Francis!’ She threw her arms around him and, with her face against his chest, hugged him tight.
He patted her on the back and stood there awkwardly until she released him. Her eyes roved over the cell, over the bed and its dark covers, over the washstand, the chest of drawers, over the small table and single chair. All of them new.
‘Papa brought you all you need?’ she asked.
He gave a nod.
‘And they are feeding you decent food?’
‘Our father has seen to everything.’
‘Do you have candles to see by? And books to pass your time? I could bring you—’
‘Thank you, Marianne, but really, I have no need of anything.’
She gave a nod. ‘If you think of something...’
‘I will ask.’
No matter that she was pretending to be strong and unmoved by seeing him here, he knew that she was not.
There was a silence—strained and filled with everything that they could not speak of.
‘I wish...’ He heard the break in her voice. She bit her lip and he could see that she was trying very hard not to weep.
‘Rotherham is dead, Marianne,’ he said. ‘And it is an end to all that went before.’ His gaze moved to Knight’s. Knight’s face was hard, but Linwood saw something that looked like gratitude and relief flicker in his brother-in-law’s eyes.
‘The price was too high.’ His sister’s eyes scanned his as she spoke.
‘Maybe. But I do not regret what I do.’
‘Francis,’ she whispered, and the tears spilled over to run silently down her cheeks.
He smiled at
her, knowing all that she had been through these past years. ‘You asked if there was something you might do for me.’
‘Anything.’
‘Do not come here again.’
She closed her eyes and gave a little sob. ‘Please, Francis,’ she whispered.
‘Promise me, Marianne.’
She nodded. ‘If that is your true wish, then I promise.’
Knight put his arm around her and began to steer her away. ‘Come, Marianne.’ She was weeping in earnest now.
The two men’s eyes met across the cell.
Rafe Knight bowed his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘I will look after her, always.’
Linwood gave a nod. ‘There is none who could do it better.’ He knew that absolutely; the knowledge drove him on, even now. And even when the heavy iron door slammed shut behind them to leave him here alone once more.
* * *
In the theatre that afternoon Venetia watched the rehearsal with her understudy playing her part. She could hear Mr Kemble’s voice talking about the play, about the delivery of her lines, about stage directions, about the audience, all the things that made up Venetia’s life. All the things that had been so important to her. Except that now they did not seem so very important at all. She felt shallow, trivial, disconnected.
‘Venetia?’
She blinked and realised that Mr Kemble was talking to her.
‘Mr Kemble?’ she said, the ghost of the self-assured woman she had once been.
‘Are you sure you should be here?’
‘Where else should I be?’ The theatre had been her home, her family for as long as she could remember. If she were not here, she was afraid of where she would be, of what she would be doing. She had been afraid of that her whole life.
‘The understudy can finish the run.’
‘On the contrary, I will finish the run, Mr Kemble.’ She had to. It was what she did. It was who she was. Wasn’t it?
‘Glad to hear it.’ Mr Kemble smiled and lowered the volume of his voice. ‘The place has been half-empty with Miss Bolton in the role. You know they only come to see you.’
Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison Page 41