Sweet Deception (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  She watched him come toward her as a predator stalks his prey. "'Tis not idle, I assure you, sir."

  He stopped a few feet from her and reached up to smooth his grey mustache, watching her face as he tried to discern the truth of her words. "Come, come, what is it, then?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice again. "What possible information could you have that would be of significance to me?"

  "Quite significant, I'd wager, for it could mean your head in the Tower." Since the return of Charles Stuart to the throne, punishment for treason, even suspected, was dealt with swiftly and with a heavy hand. Charles II had no intention of allowing any situation to get out of hand. His father had lost his head in his own courtyard, a fate Charles II was determined to avoid. Already more than one nobleman had been beheaded in the Tower of London for less than what Waxton's letter suggested.

  Her husband crossed his arms over his chest. He was dressed superbly as always, in a burgundy velvet suit with a broad linen collar. No doubt it was Thomasina's money that had purchased the clothing, for though he had come to Havering House with a title and a small home on The Strand in London, he had little more. His family had lost everything in the wars.

  "Pray tell me, then, what this vital information is, and we will see what it is worth to me."

  Filled with a new sense of confidence, Thomasina stepped away from him and went around the table toward the windows. She kept one eye on him as she walked. "I have a letter, sir."

  "'Sdeath, woman! Speak sense. A letter? What is a letter to me?"

  "A letter with a list of names . . ." She glanced up to see Waxton turn notably pale.

  "Names?"

  "Twelve, to be exact. A list of names and a brief description of a purpose to the assembly."

  He swore a foul French oath beneath his breath. "You cannot be serious? You mean to blackmail me? You are even more a lackwit that I thought, wife."

  "I want a horse and an escort to London. A few pounds to see to my lodging—"

  He gave a little laugh. "An innocent such as yourself in London? You'd not last a week in that decadent fetid city. Londontown devours pretty, naughty little girls like you, my child."

  "—and an annulment. I don't care what reason you give. Say I'm barren if you like." She folded her hands. "As long as you leave me be, your secret will be revealed to no one."

  Waxton took a sudden step around the long wooden table toward her, lifting his upper lip in a sneer. "You're serious, aren't you, you little bitch?"

  She took a step back, her voice haughty. She had him now. There was truth in the letter and he was afraid of her. He would have to comply with her wishes. "Entirely, my lord."

  He held out a wrinkled palm. "Give me the letter and I will forget this conversation took place."

  "I can't do that."

  "Where is it?" he shouted, shaking his fist. "Tell me where it is or you will severely regret your actions." His fist came down hard on the wooden table, knocking an empty glass beaker to the stone floor.

  The sound of the shattering glass was frightening in the tension of the room. "I . . . I will not give it to you," Thomasina whispered. "You will let me go tonight or the information will be in the king's hand by the dawn's light."

  "Who else knows of this? Who is in conspiracy with you?" In rage, Waxton balled his fists at his sides. He was a man to whom control meant everything, and he did not like it when he lost control. "Tell me who!"

  Of course, Thomasina had taken no one into her confidence. It was a bluff of sorts. She really didn't know how she could transfer the information to the king. Of course, she had realized she wouldn't have to. She had known that Waxton would have to meet her demands, aware she knew what she did. "It matters not who is with me. All that matters is that you free me from this abortion of a marriage and that I keep your secret safe."

  Waxton's eyes narrowed. "The groom. What is his name? Lester." He snapped his fingers. "I knew that you must be lying with him!"

  "Not Lester."

  "Cook's son, then?" He looked up at her. "I suppose that my rein was not tight enough, for you still somehow managed to spread yourself for another man despite my efforts."

  "I have given myself to no one. I'm still as virginal as the day you took me as your bride on my fourteenth birthday," she said, enjoying just a little the power of being able to remind him of his failure to perform as a man. "For all you know, my accomplice could be female."

  "That 'twould not be unheard of," he accused.

  She frowned, her voice taking on a gentler tone. "Come, Waldron." Thomasina had used her husband's first name but two or three times in eight years. "Let me go. I won't tell anyone what the letter said. I swear, I won't. I couldn't give a hang for your politics or anyone else's. I just want to be free of you."

  Waxton hung his head, shaking it wearily as he made a clicking sound between his teeth. "Oh, my silly girl, my silly little girl." He looked up at her. "You truly thought this would work? You truly thought that I would ever let you go?"

  "You must. If you want to save yourself and the others, you have no choice."

  He began to come slowly toward her, still shaking his head. Thomasina took a step back.

  "You don't have an accomplice, do you, my darling child?"

  She took another step back. "I do."

  "You don't. I know you too well. You're too concerned for others' welfare to endanger anyone, no matter how insignificant a creature that person might be. Yes, you have the letter," he agreed, still moving closer, "but you thought I would just let you go. Oh, silly little Thomasina. I can't let you go. I can't even let you live knowing what you know."

  She half smiled in disbelief. "You wouldn't murder me, not your own wife."

  "The pity of the matter is that no one will even know you're dead. No one will care."

  Thomasina's mouth dropped open in the sudden realization that she had made a terrible error in judgment. She had never thought her husband a murderer, but she had been wrong. She could see it in the glimmer of his dark eyes. He meant to kill her . . .

  Just as Waxton dove forward, Thomasina let out a bloodcurdling scream and dodged around a small table under one of the windows.

  "Go ahead and scream," Waxton taunted, coming toward her. "No one will hear you up here. And even if they did, they would not come. My servants are loyal only to me. I have made certain of that."

  She lifted a glass beaker and threw it at him. He raised his hands to protect his face and the glass shattered against his hollow chest.

  He cursed her, brushing away the broken glass from his clothes. She lifted another container, this one tin, and threw it. He yelped as it glanced off his head.

  "Let me go!" Thomasina screamed, tears running down her cheeks as she reached for another projectile. "You had no right to keep me locked up here all these years!"

  "I had every right as your husband," he bellowed.

  She watched him pick up a knife from the table behind him, and Thomasina shook her head in terror. "Let me go, Waldron. Just let me go and I'll never tell a soul."

  "Tell me where the letter is!"

  She threw another glass beaker, but this time he ducked and it missed him entirely, hitting the drapes behind him before it crashed to the floor.

  "I won't tell you!" she screamed, her entire body shaking. "Go ahead and kill me, but you'll never find the letter! You'll never know when the king's men will come to take you to the Tower, will you? You'll never know!"

  In a rage of fury, Waxton lunged forward, the knife in his hand. Thomasina screamed and fell back against the musty drapes as the tip of the knife nicked her left breast. She shoved the little table at him, catching him across the groin. Waxton doubled over and groaned in pain. Seizing his moment of incapacity, she ran along the rough-carved wall. If she could just reach the doorway!

  "Come back here, you malapert slut!" Waxton shouted. "I will have that letter or your death will not be without pain!"

  Thomasina's heavy skirts and tight
busk made it nearly impossible to run, but she forced herself forward. No matter how terrible her life had been these last eight years, she still wanted desperately to live. Just another few feet and she would reach the door!

  But suddenly she felt his grip on her arm. She screamed again and again as he sank his long fingernails into her flesh and whirled her around. He slammed her against the stone wall so hard that the impact jarred her teeth. As she clutched at the drapes, trying to keep her footing, a candle in the windowsill tipped, igniting the velvet. Flames shot up the wall as Thomasina twisted, trying to escape her madman husband.

  "Where is it? Where is it?" he cried as he grasped the bodice of her gown and ripped it, letting her breasts fall bare from the torn velvet. He tried to bring the knife up beneath her chin, but she raised her knee sharply against his elbow and the weapon went clattering to the floor.

  "Fire!" she screamed. "Fire!" If his servants would pay no heed to her screams for help, perhaps their fear of fire would bring them.

  "You're going to die! You're going to die and no one will miss you a wit, you little sneaking jade!" Waxton wrapped his bony fingers around Thomasina's neck and pressed her back against the window, oblivious to the flames around them.

  She felt his fingers tighten around her windpipe as she clawed at his hands. Not this way. I won't die this way. Despite Waxton's age, she was still no match for his strength. Already she was growing lightheaded, though she could still feel the pressure of his hands and the heat of the fire on her face.

  Thomasina knew it would only take a few seconds without air before she would lose consciousness. And then he would win. She would be dead and no one would be any wiser. What Waxton said was true. No one would care, for there wasn't a soul on earth who gave a hang about her. But she deserved better. She deserved happiness, even love, and she wasn't going to let Waxton's twisted wickedness rob her of that right.

  Somewhere deep within herself Thomasina found a surge of strength. Though her hands had already gone limp, her sight blurry, somewhere she found the power to twist around. She kicked hard with her left leg, catching Waxton in the shin, and then shoved him as he lost his balance.

  Thomasina heard the glass window shatter before she saw it, and then it took a moment for her to realize what was happening as the bitter winter wind came whistling through the room. Time suddenly seemed to slow, so that every action was exaggerated, every sound intensified.

  By the orange light of the blazing drapes, she saw an instant of stark terror on Waxton's face as he continued to fall backward. He flailed his arms and grabbed for her, catching Thomasina's sleeve. She looked down in mute horror as she felt herself begin to pitch forward into the darkness. But the sleeve cuff tore from her gown . . .

  Waxton uttered a terrifying scream as lost the final resistance and went tumbling through the window toward the ground, four stories below.

  Suddenly, Thomasina was alone in the blazing laboratory. Rain pelted her face, the wind tearing at her hair as she stood immobilized by fear and shock.

  But her inner self, the survivalist in her, called out to her. Run! Run! Run far from here and never look back!

  Suppressing the urge to peer out the window at Waxton's broken body below, Thomasina lifted her skirts and ran for the door.

  "Fire! Fire! Above in the tower," a servant screamed from somewhere in the house.

  Thomasina sailed down the steps, passing two men with buckets of water. They called to her but she kept running.

  She raced through the maze of hallways and down two back staircases, knowing it would be only moments before someone discovered the dead master. Thomasina could hear the shouts of servants and the clatter of feet on the stone floors as she darted through the long kitchen toward a back door.

  Outside she ran across the compound, oblivious to the driving rain and harsh wind. She ducked inside the stables. One of the grooms lay asleep on a pile of straw. She touched him with the toe of her slipper. "Saddle me a horse—astride," she ordered, panting.

  The groom sat up, blinking away his sleep. "My lady?"

  "I said, saddle me a horse!"

  He looked up at her exposed breasts, and she quickly lifted the torn material to make herself more decent. There was blood streaked on her hands, from whence it had come she didn't know. "Now, I say!"

  He shook his head. "My . . . my Lord Waxton won't a . . . allow me to saddle up for you without his permission."

  Spotting a pitchfork leaning against the wall, she grabbed it and thrust it at the boy. "I said, saddle up one of the mares, or I'll run you through with this, I swear by the heavens, I will."

  The round-eyed groom darted into the nearest stall.

  Spotting a woolen cloak and an old hat with a drooping feather, Thomasina snatched them up. She pulled her hair up on her head and pulled the hat over it, then threw the cloak over her shoulders and tied it around her neck.

  When the boy led a saddled mare out of the stall a moment later, she made him give her a lift up. He opened the doors and she sank her heels into the horse's flanks and sailed out of the barn, the woolen cloak flapping behind her.

  Thomasina reined around Havering House, intending to take the main road toward London. Flames shot from the windows of the tower, the room fully engulfed, filling the sky with orange light and shooting sparks. As she circled the house, she spotted the lantern light below the tower. They had found Waxton. She pulled hard on the horse's reins and the beast slid to a stop in a slick of mud. Thomasina debated which way to go, fearing someone would see her. But, then, what did it matter now? Waxton was dead, and a houseful of servants had seen her flee the tower. Murderess! She had killed her husband, and the punishment for her crime would be to hang from her neck until dead. The fact that her husband had tried to kill her was inconsequential.

  Thomasina lifted the reins and urged her mount forward. This path was the quickest way to the road. If she had any hope of escaping, it had to be this way.

  As she raced past the tower where men and women gathered, she caught a glimpse of Hunt by the yellow light of the lanterns. He held Waxton by the shoulders, and for a moment she thought for certain that she saw her husband's lips move.

  "Stop her!" Hunt suddenly shouted above the cry of the wind as he pointed an accusing finger. "Stop the murderess!"

  Thomasina lowered her head and urged her mount faster. There was no turning back now. She sped down the long lane and onto the road that led to London.

  Not a mile down the road, she heard the pounding of hoofbeats behind. She didn't know how he had gotten a mount so swiftly, but she knew it was Hunt. And as surely as she knew her own sire, she knew in her heart of hearts that Waxton had lived long enough to tell Hunt of the incriminating letter.

  Thomasina tried to get the mare to run faster, but she was a delicate mount, no match for the war-horse Hunt rode. Thomasina didn't know how long she could ride at this jarring pace or how long the mare would hold up. Mud splashed up from the rutted roadway, onto her skirts and even into her face. Again and again the horse slipped, nearly going down in the mud and pouring rain. But she gave no thought to her discomfort as she tried to concentrate on the road ahead. Surely the good Lord would not let her die this way, here on a lonely road by the hands of the devil incarnate?

  Hunt was gaining on her. He was no more than a quarter of a mile behind her now. She could hear his horse's hoofbeats; she could feel his pink eyes boring into her. But there was nowhere to go, no pathway to turn off onto, no woods for cover. She could do nothing but ride and pray for God's mercy.

  Suddenly, Thomasina made out two flickers of lamplight. A coach! A coach ahead! She began to scream and wave one hand, while struggling to keep her seat on the slippery saddle. The weight of her sodden wet skirts was pulling her down and throwing her off balance. "Help," she cried. "Help me!"

  Baron Richard Chambray sat on the leather bench seat of his coach with his long legs stretched out, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes closed. The rain beat dow
n on roof and the wind blew so hard that the vehicle swayed precariously. Richard thought of the poor coachmen out in the downpour and wondered if he should not have stopped at that roadway inn nearly two miles back. But he wanted to get back to London, by morning if possible.

  He had been to visit his widow mother in Essex, a duty that always left him fatigued. But since he had returned from the Turkish wars to find his father dead and his mother alone in the country, he had made it a ritual to visit the ailing woman once a month. Richard dug beneath his brocaded coat and pulled out a flask. He took a sip of the fiery liquor, as much to chase away the memories as to quench the chill of the frigid night.

  Five years ago he had left England a young man, anxious to see the world. After a year in France he had joined several mercenary friends on a lark. They had wound up captured prisoners, and Richard had lost his manhood to a Saracen's blade. He was a eunuch. The word still echoed in his head as his mother had sobbed it. But the bitter resentment had passed, the psychological pain long gone and nearly healed along with the scars. He had his life here in England now, and a good life it was. With the title of baron left by his father and a reasonable sum of money, he spent his days gambling, supping with friends, and enjoying the freedoms of life he had nearly lost in that hellhole cell in the sand.

  Richard took another sip of the brandy and corked the flask, returning it to his coat. As he laid back against the leather backrest, he thought he heard a faint voice. The wind, he surmised . . .

  But then he heard it again. Stronger, more clearly. Someone crying for help!

  Richard parted the back leather curtain of the carriage and peered out the window. Through the darkness and downpour he saw the outline of a horse, its rider flailing his arms.

  Richard considered not stopping. These days the roads were amuck with highway robbers known to pass themselves off as travelers in distress, only to rob a man and leave him to die on the roadway. But there was a tone to the voice that made Richard think differently.

  He rapped his fist on the ceiling of the coach. "Paul! Stop!" he ordered.

  Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, Richard stepped out into the mud the moment the coach ceased to roll. He shaded his eyes from the rain and squinted. Yes, yes, definitely a rider.