Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Yes, Adele is my daughter,” he said before his brain could stop his lips from saying it.

  Elizabeth had been summoning up her own courage, but forgot all she had wished to say and stared, her mouth open wide in obvious shock. “What?”

  Paul felt a stab to his heart. Had he been wrong? Could it be, she knew nothing? Too late! Too late! He paused a moment, and then began to explain. “It was in Paris. My first trip there for the government. Uncle James and an inner circle member who serves in high office there had asked me to learn all I could about a Redwing group that met there on the outskirts of the city. My official mission was to spy upon a banker, but it turned out that the two assignments were actually one. Since my actions could not be served in my own person, I assumed a false identity as an art student, who frequented the low Parisian bars and gambling houses. I called myself David Saunders, an outcast son with predilections for depravity.”

  “You?” She asked, for she had never considered what unsavoury methods Paul may be forced to employ in the greater world beyond her own. “But that is so dangerous!”

  “Beth, darling, that is my life. The life I live apart from you. I have always tried to keep it from you—the truth of how I must live and work—but there it is. As I said, my false identity required me to inhabit areas to which I pray you may never go, for the denizens of these densely packed back streets will pick your pocket and slash your throat for the price of a few centimes. It was into these dark avenues I went, happy to serve my country—and you.”

  “But, Paul...” she began, stopped by the touch of his lips on her own. He kissed her desperately, longingly for what he feared may be the last time. Then he stood up, pacing as he spoke.

  “To follow my primary prey, I had to frequent a house of liaisons, where certain women please men—physically, that is, for pay.”

  “A prostitution establishment?” she asked, her mind working through this confession as if trying to sift through a dark puzzle.

  “The same,” he said simply. “I spent many months moving through this benighted society, and in so doing, I formed a strong—attachment—with a woman who worked in one such establishment. Her name was Cozette du Barroux.”

  Elizabeth wanted to speak, but she knew he had to tell all now, and she waited patiently, doing her best to keep her face calm to help him in his difficult task.

  He gazed at her for a moment, seeing the effort she now made on his behalf. Paul longed to sweep her into his arms and take her away to a place known only to themselves and make her his bride, but that would never be, for this confession was sure to part them forever.

  “When I had accomplished my mission, I bid Cozette farewell and sailed back to England, not realising that she…” He struggled to say it, but it had to be said. Elizabeth had to have surmised it, for Paul had already admitted that Adele was his own daughter.

  “She had conceived your child,” she said bravely, but he had no idea that her mind worked not only on his confession and how it would affect their lives, but also on her night with Charles. Had she, too, conceived a child? Was that the dark purpose for what occurred that night? The answer to the riddle?

  “Yes,” he said, clearly grateful that she said it first. “I did not know, Beth. Not until more than two years later, when I returned as my true self to negotiate a treaty. It was then that I again found myself following the man who had played a central role in my earlier mission. One who then led me to Cozette and her secret. I needn’t say more, but when I learnt the truth, that Cozette’s daughter was my own, I leased a home for all three of us and stayed with her until—until Cozette died. She had contracted consumption in my absence, and she... She died in my arms,” he finished, his voice breaking as tears slid down his cheeks.

  Elizabeth rose to her feet, encircling his waist and burying her face in his chest. “Oh, Paul, I am so sorry! But you did honour to her in those final days,” she cried, kissing his hands. “I have always known you are a man of great character, and you would have done more had she told you. So you then brought Adele home to be with her family?”

  “My father would not allow me to reveal Adele’s true parentage, as my own daughter, so he adopted her. Della has no idea.”

  “And she never shall, unless you think it best to tell her. Paul, my wonderful cousin and friend! I do love you, and now that I know she is yours, I love her all the more for it! I pray her mother sings now with the angels in heaven as she looks upon the pair of you.”

  He held her as best his wounded shoulder allowed, kissing her hair and face. “I felt certain that you would hate me when you learnt the truth.”

  “I could never hate you, darling. Never. I think you are wonderful, and nothing would ever alter that.”

  “You grant me too much praise,” he whispered, taking her hands in his. “Beth, tell me truly. Is it Charles you love?”

  Charles. It was now her turn for confession, and she prayed for courage to say it quickly. “Now, my darling Paul, you must sit whilst I pace, for I know that my words will hurt you.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sooner had she done so, than a great commotion erupted from below. Shouts for both her and Paul to come down, accompanied by the rushed footsteps that she knew to be Adele’s, and then suddenly the girl burst into Paul’s apartment, her small face filled with fear. “He’s fainted! Cousin Charles has gone all white, and he’s desperately ill!”

  Beth and Paul hurried to the main floor, only a few steps behind the flying feet of Adele as she led them into the music room. Mr. Kepelheim, Mrs. MacAnder, and Dr. MacKey stood over the prostrate marquess, checking his pulse and administering medication, as a footman cooled his face with a large, feathered fan.

  “See?” Adele said, rushing to James. “He has fainted, and it is all my fault!”

  Kepelheim advanced to his friends, his round face filled with deep concern. “He simply collapsed, and we have no idea why. Our doctor is practising her craft, but the marquess remains unconscious. Dear lady, might you see what you can do for him?”

  Paul released her hand, and Elizabeth rushed to the couch where Charles lay. “Captain, you must open your eyes! We have our Adele to play for us, darling. Please, touch my hand if you hear me.” She kissed his forehead, and it was like ice. “Did he receive a shock?” she asked, looking about the room. “What happened?”

  Adele was in tears. “I asked him to play a new song with me, and that is when he fell. Oh, it is my fault!”

  Elizabeth considered this for a moment, but it was the tailor who thought to glance at the music. He reached for the sheets, and shuffling through them, he went to the child. “Of course, it is not your fault, Della. Lord Haimsbury has been ill of late, and he must have eaten a bit of pudding that did not settle well. Do you know which music it was that you asked him to play?”

  She pointed to the csárdás, which the learned tailor knew to be of Romany origin. “Gypsy music?” he asked aloud. “Oh, I think he could have played this, although it is a difficult piece. Now, now, sweet Della, you must dry your tears. Charles will want you to be laughing from both your heads when he awakes.”

  “I shall, if that is what will make him better,” she said bravely.

  “Very good,” he said, kissing her hand. “You are a Stuart, through and through.” And then, turning to the earl, he drew both him and Elizabeth to one side. “Our friend is in danger if that woman continues to work her spells. Lord Aubrey, can you not find some way to distract her?”

  Paul wondered for a moment what Kepelheim could mean, but knowing the tailor’s record for nearly always being right in any given circumstance, he nodded, saying aloud, “Mr. Kepelheim, whilst your medical bag is out, I wonder if you might find a stronger remedy for my arm. It has kept me awake much of the night, and I find it now feels numb.”

  MacKey’s head bobbed up, and she left her ministrations and slithered to the earl’s
side. “Numb? My lord, that is a dangerous symptom. You must allow me to examine you at once.”

  Paul allowed Lorena to lead him back up the stairs, but his thoughts remained with Elizabeth and Charles. What had she been about to tell him?

  Upstairs, Lorena took the earl back into the bedroom where only moments before he had confessed his darkest secret to the woman he loved. Now, a woman whom he had known less than forty-eight hours worked her fingers across his bare chest and shoulders in a manner more like a lover than a physician.

  “Can you feel that?” she asked, running her soft hand along his muscled arm. He nodded. “Make a fist for me. Good. You had frightened me, Lord Aubrey. Nerve damage is not uncommon in such a wound, and I despaired that you might never regain full use of your arm, which would be a shame on many counts.”

  Paul felt that same, seductive power ooze from her words, and he struggled to keep his mind alert and thinking clearly. Had she cast a spell on him? Was she the witch that Kepelheim believed? “I have you to thank if I do,” he said sweetly, playing her game. It was very likely Beth’s future now lay in the hands of another man, so he must use his own skills to keep this woman from further harming Charles. “I feel a bit weak, though. Is that to be expected? It has been a very trying few days since we came here on Monday.”

  “Has it?” she asked, clearly probing for information. “Perhaps, it would help you to speak of it. You do look mildly feverish. You might feel better if you lie down, my lord. If you did not sleep well, then your nerves must be ragged. Here, let me help you into bed.”

  Paul leaned upon the tall woman’s shoulder, forcing himself to ignore the seductive scent that played now upon his better judgment.

  “It is a comfort to know we have one as skilled as you with us right now,” he whispered as she helped him into the cool, silk sheets. “I know you must return to my cousin, but would you remain with me for a few moments?”

  She smiled, and her green eyes sparked fire. “I would be pleased to do so, for I worry about you, dear brave Paul.”

  She kissed his injured right palm as if to soothe it, and then she leaned forward and kissed his face, gently at first, slowly moving her focus from cheek to mouth until her lips won his own.

  Despite his desire to keep the doctor occupied, this bold move startled the earl, and he jerked away. “No!” he shouted, instantly regretting the blunder. She clearly wanted to seduce him, but he must play along without letting her win.

  “I am sorry,” she said, pouting. “I thought…”

  “It is my fault,” he explained, smoothing over the mistake. “Lorena, I must confess something to you. I may have shown improper familiarity when first we met, for you see, there is an unspoken understanding twixt myself and the duchess.”

  “Forgive me. I had no idea,” she lied. “Elizabeth shows so much attention to your cousin, that I had assumed the ring she wears was his. Now, I am completely embarrassed. I have thrown myself at you shamelessly. It is just that you—well, you seemed unattached, and even interested.”

  “Will you forgive me?” he asked sweetly, finally in control once more. “My relationship with Elizabeth is rather complicated. She owns my heart, but I’m no longer confident of her affections. I believe they may be shifting toward another.”

  “She is a fool then,” the doctor said as she brushed a lock of chestnut hair from his eyes. “I, however, am not a fool. And though she may govern your heart, I would settle for just a bit of you, my lord, though I know that makes me sound like a great fool myself.”

  “If so, then you are a beautiful fool,” he admitted and meaning it. “Would you agree to give me time?”

  “All that you require,” she said prettily. “I shall be waiting in the wings, as they say. My heart—and my body eager to be your very own.”

  She left him then, closing the door, wondering if he truly meant what he’d said. Somehow, it seemed all too easy, but perhaps the earl was a pragmatist, and he found a willing woman better than none at all. No matter! She would happily snap the trap when it was time.

  Three days passed, and Charles Sinclair still lay unconscious in a mysterious fever, tended by Martin Kepelheim and Mrs. MacAnder. The experienced nurse had, at first, feared that the marquess had contracted typhus or caught a chill, but nothing she did seemed to help. The only time his fever lessened seemed to be whenever Elizabeth held his hand or bathed his brow, so the duchess remained with him nearly all hours of the day and night, sleeping now and then in a chair near his bedside.

  Paul managed to keep Lorena MacKey occupied and distracted by taking her to Glasgow, where they collected her suitcases and enjoyed a day’s shopping. Though no one in the house trusted the woman, the duke felt it was wiser to keep her close rather than allow her to operate from a distance, and he suggested to his nephew that her interest in him might prove useful to the circle.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Kepelheim entered to find the duchess asleep, her head resting against Sinclair’s shoulder, her hand holding his. The tailor cleared his throat as he shut the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Kepelheim,” the duchess said, sleepily. “Is it morning already?”

  “It is, dear lady. Mrs. Calhoun has provided a delightful repast in the breakfast room, and your grandfather hopes you will join him for an hour whilst Laurence and I see to our sleeping marquess.”

  Beth stood, stretching out her aching back. “Perhaps. I am rather hungry, but you will send for me if he awakens, won’t you, Martin? I’m not sure how long I’ve been sleeping, but the last time he stirred was around two this morning. He keeps calling for someone named Albert. I’m not sure who that is.”

  “Nor am I,” the tailor muttered. Kepelheim had brought ice and linen towels as well as alcohol to bathe his patient, and he set these items aside for a moment, turning toward the door as it opened once more. “Ah, Mr. Laurence. I’d hoped you would join us. I should appreciate your help with our patient. Duchess, we must see to Lord Haimsbury’s needs, and perhaps…”

  “Oh, of course. Privacy. I understand. But you will send for me, if…”

  “Should anything change or the marquess awaken, we shall send for you at once, dear lady. Now, take a few moments to nourish your mind and heart, and when you are refreshed, he will be here, clean and perhaps awake. Who knows?”

  She leaned down to kiss his lips, wiping at his brow softly. “Darling, I shan’t be long. You must come back to us soon, Captain. We miss you so. I miss you.”

  She kissed him once more and then left, shutting the door. Martin helped the butler to remove the marquess’s sleep shirt, turning him as they did so. “He is soaked through again. What can this illness be to cause him such night sweats? The duchess did not mention the room’s being overheated; in fact, it seems quite cool in here to me, yet, he is burning up.”

  “Is it typhus, sir?” Laurence asked as he placed the damp nightshirt into a cotton, laundry bag.

  “No, I do not think so, yet, he lingers beyond our reach.” Martin applied the cold cloths to his patient’s wrists and throat, hoping to lower the fever whilst the butler changed out the bedclothes. “You do that well, Matthew. Has Mrs. MacAnder been training you in nursing care?”

  Laurence laughed easily, his coppery brows rising with the corners of his mouth. “She has, sir, but my mum also knew a bit about caring for invalids—not to say the marquess is such, but if he cannot get out of bed, then one must change out the sheets to make him comfortable, is that not so?”

  “It is. Medical ministrations are useless without tending to basic comforts. Do we have another sleep shirt for him?”

  “The duke suggested using Lord Kesson’s Indian pyjamas for the marquess. Just the trousers, though, since he seems so prone to overheating. But would that be appropriate, if the duchess insists on remaining at his bedside?”

  “No, probably not. Still, if he is more comfortable, and as yo
u say, the duke suggested it. Yes, I think it is a good idea. Are the pyjamas nearby?”

  “I’ll fetch them, sir.” Laurence left the bed chamber, and the tailor checked his patient’s eyes and listened to his heart.

  In a few moments, the butler returned and together they dressed the marquess in a pair of dark blue silk pyjamas, deciding to also use the shirt, but leave it unbuttoned. “I think that is a brilliant compromise,” the tailor said. “He looks much cooler already.”

  “He does, sir. The duke asked me if I’d like to travel to London with the marquess when he opens Haimsbury House.”

  “Really?” Martin asked, closing his medical bag. “I like that idea very much. I’ve been to that home many times, though not since ’60, of course. Such a terrible year that was. It is a magnificent home. Would you serve as butler or as an agent for the circle?”

  “That would be up to Lord Haimsbury, sir. He’s been very kind to me, and if he asks me to serve, I’d be pleased to say yes to whatever position he requires.”

  “You’re a gentle young man, my friend. Laurence, has Lord Haimsbury spoken at all when you are in here? The duchess has reported our friend crying out at times during the night. Have you witnessed such?”

  “Only once, sir. I came in two nights ago to sit with him whilst the duchess stepped out for a few moments. I believe that is when the earl and the doctor returned from Glasgow.”

  “Ah, yes. I think our sweet duchess was surprised that the doctor returned with her cousin. No matter. The duke is right to keep that witch close by, but it is also good that the earl distracts her whilst our marquess recovers. So, what did he say?”

  “Sir?”

  “Lord Haimsbury. You said that he spoke.”