by Emily Larkin
Charlotte crossed the carpet as swiftly as her lizard legs could carry her. She changed into a monkey and reached for the diary. Every hair on her body stood on end. Her pulse echoed deafeningly in her ears. Surely the valet would notice her? Surely Monkwood would open his eyes and see?
No shout came.
Charlotte crouched, clutching the diary. Now what? With Monkwood awake, her plans were awry. She couldn’t cross to the door and slink out. The valet would see her.
She had to get out of this room. Had to get back to the spare bedchamber, back to the window she’d broken. Back to Chandlers Street.
Her gaze fastened on the dressing room door. It was ajar.
Charlotte crept across to it. She eased through the gap between doorframe and door.
Candles were lit in the sconces. She saw crisp white shirts and gleaming boots, satin and brocade waistcoats, tailcoats in olive brown, emerald green, claret, and a dozen shades of blue. Each breath she inhaled smelled of linen and leather and wool. And Monkwood.
On the far side of the dressing room was another door.
Charlotte opened it with deft monkey fingers and peered out. An empty corridor stretched in both directions.
Chapter Forty-Three
Charlotte glided in through her open window, skimmed over the writing desk, and hovered on hawk’s wings above the armchair. She dropped the diary on the upholstered seat, landed alongside, and changed into Albin. She didn’t bother closing the window, didn’t bother dressing, just snatched up the diary and opened it.
October 28th. Today Cosgrove dies! Monkwood had underlined that sentence three times. Beneath it, he’d written the time he’d woken—7.45 a.m.—the food he’d eaten for breakfast, and the garments he intended to wear. Black breeches, black waistcoat, black tailcoat.
Charlotte turned back a page. Still no word from the Smiths, but I shall do it myself. It’s better that Cosgrove die at my hands. My beloved Helen would prefer it so. She skipped over several paragraphs of anguish about the snowstorm. It must be done tomorrow. “Must” had been underlined so deeply the paper was torn. At the bottom of the page Monkwood had written: 8 p.m. The snow has stopped. God is on my side.
She turned back another page, almost ripping the paper in her haste. Here was the text of a letter.
Dear Lord Cosgrove,
I have come into the possession of some information that I believe may interest you, namely, the identity of the person who commissioned the scurrilous letter about you. If you will do me the honor of meeting with me at the monument of Britannia in Hyde Park at half past nine tomorrow morning, I shall be pleased to share my knowledge with you.
Yours sincerely,
A Friend.
Charlotte’s heart lurched in her chest. Half past nine?
The church bells were ringing nine o’clock now.
Charlotte dressed faster than she’d ever dressed in her life—shirt, breeches, boots—her fingers clumsy with haste. She flung aside such time-consuming items as waistcoat and neckcloth and stockings, didn’t even bother with her tailcoat. She snatched up the diary and the last of her coins and ran down to the street, dragging on her greatcoat. A scattering of snowflakes drifted from the low, gray sky.
Where was Hyde Park from here? Where was the Britannia monument?
She needed a hackney, but Chandlers Street was empty apart from tracks in the snow.
A hundred yards away, on Oxford Street, a hackney trotted slowly past. Charlotte started running. “Hie! Jarvey! Wait!”
* * *
The hackney deposited her in Hyde Park. Snow was now falling steadily. “You can just see the top o’ it through them yews,” the jarvey said, pointing through the haze of snowflakes. Bells tolled distantly, ringing the half hour. “There’s a carriageway on t’other side. I can take you round—”
Charlotte thrust some coins at him. “No, thank you.”
She ran, her boots churning the snow. Panic drove her. Faster. Cold air whistled in her throat. Snowflakes struck her face and stung her eyes. Faster.
The yews had been planted in concentric rings. Prickly branches slapped her, grabbing at her coat, trying to slow her down. Faster. Don’t let her be too late. Don’t let Cosgrove be dead. Faster. Faster.
Charlotte burst out of the trees, gasping, her breath pluming white in front of her face.
The monument towered high—a marble Britannia with trident and shield and centurion’s helmet, a lion at her side like a dog. Two figures stood on the snow-covered steps, half a dozen yards distant from each other. One was the earl. The other was Monkwood.
“It’s a trap, sir!” she shouted.
Both men swung to face her. Snowflakes spun in the air.
“He’s planning to kill you,” Charlotte cried, panting, plowing through the snow towards them.
“Nonsense.” Monkwood’s face twisted in a contemptuous sneer. “Your secretary is delusional, Cosgrove.”
“He’s not my secretary.” The earl’s voice was hard, clipped. He looked through Charlotte as if she didn’t exist.
“Sir,” she said desperately, pulling the diary from her pocket, holding it out to him. “It’s all in here.”
The earl made no move to take the diary. “I may be a fool,” he said coldly. “But I’m not so much of a fool that I came alone. Of course I knew it was a trap.”
Monkwood’s sneer turned into a snarl, his teeth bared like the marble lion. “You—” He lunged at Cosgrove, one fist raised to strike.
Charlotte flung herself forward, taking the blow on her right shoulder. The impact knocked her off her feet. She grabbed Monkwood as she fell, taking him with her, tumbling in the snow, hanging on to him with all her strength. I won’t let you kill him.
Monkwood fought like an animal, scratching, snapping his teeth. A mad keening came from his throat.
Someone tore them apart, lifting Monkwood off her.
Charlotte lay where she’d fallen, panting, and watched two of Cosgrove’s footmen haul Monkwood to his feet and hold him restrained. Snowflakes settled on her face.
“Get up,” the earl said. His eyes met hers for a fleeting second before he turned away, shoving a dueling pistol into his pocket.
Charlotte stayed where she was a moment longer, catching her breath, blinking snow from her eyes, then slowly pushed to her feet. Her shoulder ached, as if Monkwood had hit it with a sledgehammer.
The diary lay where she’d dropped it, red against the churned-up snow. She bent and picked it up, but her mind wasn’t on the diary, wasn’t on Monkwood and the curses he was hurling at Cosgrove; it was on what she’d seen in the earl’s gray eyes.
Her fingers trembled as she brushed snow off the calfskin cover. He hates me.
It was what she deserved. What she’d earned.
The earl was speaking, his voice overriding Monkwood’s curses. “—sue for slander. I’ll win; we both know it. Your diaries contain more than enough evidence.”
“You son of a bitch!” Monkwood screamed, high-voiced, his face engorged with rage. Breath billowed from his mouth like smoke. “Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!”
The earl didn’t move. He looked as if he were hewn from stone, like the Britannia towering above them; his body didn’t stir, no muscle in his face twitched. He waited until Monkwood drew breath and continued: “You hired men to kill me, and then you tried to do the job yourself. Do you know what the penalty for murder is?”
“You killed Lavinia! What’s the penalty for that?” The footmen wrestled Monkwood back as he tried to lunge at Cosgrove.
“I didn’t kill Lavinia,” Cosgrove said. “Nor did I ever beat her or rape her. You shouldn’t have believed everything she told you.”
“You bastard!” Monkwood lunged again, red-faced with fury.
“Do you know what else I learned from your diaries, Monkwood? Can you possibly guess?”
Monkwood’s face contorted. His sobbing, panted breaths were loud.
“Guess!” Cosgrove’s voice was like t
he crack of a whip.
Monkwood shook his head, tears running down his face.
“Incest.”
The word brought with it silence, as if the world held its breath. Charlotte saw the footmen’s shock through the spinning snow—the flinching of the muscles around their eyes, the flaring of their nostrils.
The silence grew, widening around them like ripples spreading in a pool. She could almost hear the snowflakes floating in the air. Then, Monkwood spoke: “It wasn’t like that. We loved each other. It was special—”
“She was your ward! She was your sister!” The earl roared the last word, making Monkwood cringe. “I should kill you for that. And God knows I want to.” She heard how much he did. It trembled in his voice. His body vibrated with rage. “But for Lavinia’s sake, I shall give you a choice. You can sail for Australia and never set foot in England again. Or you can stay and face the courts. Your choice, Monkwood. Do you want it public? Your special relationship with your sister?”
Monkwood shook his head. He no longer strained to be free of the footmen; he sagged, his face mottled. Tear tracks gleamed on his plump cheeks. Snow dusted his black hat, his black coat.
“Leave England. If you’re quick, you might even make it before I lay charges for slander. I’ll give you one week.” The earl stepped back. “Let him go.”
The footmen obeyed.
Monkwood stood swaying between them. Even beaten, even weeping, he made the hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck lift. He’s still dangerous.
Monkwood turned and walked down the snowy path to the carriageway, his gait shambling, as if he were drunk.
“Sir . . .”
“Stay away from me,” the earl said, not looking at her.
“His diary, sir. It could be useful as evidence.”
Cosgrove turned his head and looked at her. His hatred wasn’t like Monkwood’s, hot and mad; it was cold, implacable. His eyes were a flat, hard gray, his face angular.
Charlotte held out the diary.
Cosgrove’s lips thinned. He took half a dozen steps and snatched the diary from her hand. “Stay away from me.” The words were hissed through his teeth.
Charlotte’s throat was too tight for speech, too tight for breath. She nodded.
The earl’s face became even more angular, his eyes even harder. He turned from her.
Charlotte watched him go, striding with his footmen into the haze of falling snow. I love you, sir. Tears burned in her eyes. Her right shoulder ached with each beat of her heart.
When Cosgrove was gone from sight, she turned and stumbled back the way she’d come, hugging her shoulder, shivering. Her fingers tingled as if she had pins and needles.
My fault. I made this bed; now I must lie in it.
* * *
How dared Charlotte think he needed her help? How dared she think he was fool enough to fall into Monkwood’s trap? Marcus’s anger increased with each stride. He wasn’t helpless. He didn’t need protecting.
His carriage came into sight, waiting where he’d left it—the horses with blankets over them, haloes of breath surrounding their heads.
Marcus halted. He turned to the two footmen. “Monkwood’s relationship with Lavinia . . .”
“We won’t say nothing, sir,” the elder of the footmen, Howard, said. He grimaced. “Stuff like that ain’t to be bandied about in public.”
No. Marcus suppressed his own grimace. “Thank you.”
The third footman hurried up, puffing, as they reached the carriage. “Monkwood’s coach has just left, sir.”
Marcus nodded. “Good. You did well. All of you.” But he didn’t feel triumphant; rage simmered in his chest. How dared she turn up today? How dared she think he needed her help?
He climbed into the carriage and tossed the diary on the seat. It slid, leaving a dark smear on the upholstery.
Marcus frowned. Was that blood?
He picked up the diary. Yes, blood, all over the red calfskin cover, and blood all over his right glove.
Where the devil had it come from?
The door swung shut. The carriage swayed as the footmen climbed aboard.
Marcus pictured the scene at the monument: Albin standing in the snow, blond head uncovered, holding the diary.
But he hadn’t seen any blood on Charlotte.
Someone had been bleeding, and Charlotte was the only person other than himself who’d touched the diary.
The carriage lurched forward.
Marcus swung open the door and jumped out. “Stop! I need to check something.”
He ran back through the snow to the monument, cursing himself with each step. Charlotte had deceived him, betrayed his trust. What did he care if she was injured?
He didn’t.
She could die for all he cared.
The ground where she’d wrestled with Monkwood was a mess of boot prints and churned snow. Where the boot prints were deepest, where she’d stood and watched him confront Monkwood, were a dozen scarlet spots. Blood.
His heart seemed to stop beating for a moment—and then to speed up. She’s hurt.
A dark object protruded from the snow. The end of a twig?
Marcus bent and pulled it out.
It wasn’t a twig; it was the hilt of a weapon. The blade was six inches long, thin and wickedly sharp, more skewer than knife. Tarnished with age. Red with blood.
The footmen came up, panting. “Sir?” one of them said.
Marcus held the weapon out. “Stiletto,” he said in disbelief, and then the disbelief fell away and the full weight of realization caught up with him. His ribcage seemed to clench around his heart. “Mr. Albin’s been stabbed.”
Stabbed. Charlotte.
Chapter Forty-Four
Marcus ran, following the tracks Charlotte had made—boot prints, bright splotches of blood. He plunged into the yews and burst out the other side. The park stretched in front of him. Dimly, through the falling snow, he saw the carriageway, saw trees, saw the Grosvenor Gate, saw the tall buildings of London beyond. But no Charlotte.
Where was she?
He ran, his boots squeaking in the snow, his breath pluming from his mouth. Behind him the footmen crashed through the trees. Stabbed. Charlotte. Her trail was easy to follow: churned-up snow, scarlet blood.
The trail stopped at the carriageway. She’d entered a vehicle, most likely a hackney.
What do I care? Marcus asked himself, panting, dashing snow from his face. But he did care, damn it. There was a feeling close to panic to his chest.
A hackney trundled along the carriageway, the horses picking their way through the snow. Marcus ran towards it. The stiletto was still in his fist. He shoved it into his pocket. “Hie! Driver!”
“Sorry, guv’nor,” the jarvey called down from his box. He jerked a thumb back at the carriage. “Passenger.”
Marcus dug in his pocket and pulled out several golden guineas. “These are for you if you get me to Chandlers Street as quickly as possible.”
The hackney halted.
Marcus wrenched open the carriage door. “I beg your pardon,” he said to the startled occupant, a stout man with a moustache. “My business is urgent.”
The man bristled. “I hired this hackney—”
Marcus thrust some guineas in the man’s direction. “Here.”
“Sir!” someone cried behind him.
Marcus jerked a glance back. Two of his footmen, red-faced and puffing, had reached the carriageway. The third trailed halfway across the snow. “Howard, come with me. Arthur, bring the carriage to Chandlers Street. And hurry!”
* * *
A hackney carriage was drawn up outside Mrs. Stitchbury’s house in Chandlers Street. Snow drifted gently down. Mrs. Stitchbury was on her doorstep, arguing with the jarvey. Everything about her was agitated: the gesticulating hands, the shapes her mouth made as she spoke, the hectic flush in her cheeks. Even the pleats of her gown and the ruffles on her lace cap were agitated.
The door of the hackney wa
s open. The jarvey stood in front of it, a pugnacious jut to his chin.
Of Albin, there was no sign.
“Pay the driver,” Marcus said, shoving money at his footman. He wrenched open the carriage door and jumped down.
“Sir!” Mrs. Stitchbury cried. “Mr. Albin’s dead!”
His heart kicked in his chest. Dead?
Marcus thrust the jarvey aside and looked into the hackney. He saw Albin slumped in one corner, eyes closed, his skin corpse-pale. He saw blood. Blood on the squab seat. Blood on the floor.
Marcus scrambled into the carriage. Don’t let her be dead. Don’t let her be dead. Was she breathing? Was her heart still beating?
“Jus’ look at the mess,” the jarvey said behind him, aggrieved.
If Charlotte was breathing, he couldn’t hear it. If her chest was rising and falling, he couldn’t see it. Marcus ripped off a glove and felt at the base of her jaw with trembling fingers.
She had a faint pulse.
“She’s—he’s alive.” He turned to the door, where the jarvey and his footman peered in. “Howard, fetch Dr. Baillie to my house. Make it fast! You know where he lives?”
“Yes, sir.” The footman departed at a run.
“You, take us to Grosvenor Square.”
The jarvey stepped back, shaking his head. “I ain’t taking ’im nowhere.”
“Damn it, man! Do it now! Before he dies!”
The jarvey shook his head again, mulish. “I’ll be fined if I ’ave a dead man in me carriage. I ain’t doin’ it.”
“For God’s sake!” Marcus shouted. He dragged the last guinea from his pocket and threw it at the man. “Get us to Grosvenor Square!”
* * *
“Well?” Marcus asked, when Dr. Baillie had examined the puncture wound in Albin’s shoulder. “He’ll live, won’t he?”
“How much blood has he lost?”
“Uh . . . three or four pints. Maybe more.”
Dr. Baillie pursed his lips. “I won’t bleed him.” He bent over the wound again. “A couple of stitches . . . If you could hold him down, Lord Cosgrove, in case he rouses.”