When Nat went into the study, Miles and Alice were standing in the window together and talking, their heads bent close, their voices low and intimate. Nat hesitated a moment on the threshold, because they looked so loving that he felt like an interloper and did not wish to interrupt them. But then Miles looked up and invited him in. Nat stepped forward into the room and noted wryly that Alice’s blue gaze was flinty and less than welcoming as it rested on him. He knew she was thinking of Lizzie.
“Lord Waterhouse.” Alice’s tone was almost as cold as the look in her eyes. She looked from Nat to Miles. “I will leave you to talk business,” she said.
“Lady Vickery,” Nat said. “Please…” Alice paused and Nat pressed his advantage. “You know that I wish to marry Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “If you have any influence with her…”
He thought Alice almost smiled. “You know as well as I do that no one can influence Lizzie once she has set her mind to a thing,” Alice said. Her voice softened. “I wish you good luck, though.”
She went out and Miles gestured Nat to a seat beside the fireplace. There was a fine carved wooden chess set on the games table between the two fireside chairs. The room was warm and smelled of beeswax and flowers. It felt like a home, Nat thought, remembering the cold emptiness of Drum before Alice had married Miles. Alice had wrought that change in the castle, and an enormous change in Miles, too. Marriage, Nat supposed, could be like that but it was a far cry from both the cold distance of the arrangement he had contemplated with Flora and the fiery quarreling he was already anticipating with Lizzie.
“I found Tom,” Nat said, without preamble. “I’ve told him to report to the magistrate and to you and Dexter in the morning. He’s too drunk to talk sensibly now.” He sighed. “Not that he is likely to be much more sober on the morrow.”
“Do you think he murdered his brother?” Miles asked.
“No,” Nat said. “Unfortunately not.”
“He had a strong motive,” Miles pointed out. “The baronetcy, the prospect of wealth under the Dames’ Tax. Everyone knows that Monty kept Tom on a tight allowance and Tom hated him for it.”
“Too many people had a motive to kill Sir Montague,” Nat said, shrugging, “though I will allow that Tom’s is one of the best. I imagine,” he added, “that he will be able to claim he was with someone last night.”
“A woman,” Miles said, nodding.
“Or several,” Nat said, ironically. He sighed. “Lady Elizabeth’s motive is less strong.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Miles said, laughing. “In point of fact she was better off with Sir Montague alive.”
“Quite.” Nat shifted. “ Miles, I have a problem. You know that Lizzie is only twenty and therefore requires her guardian’s permission to wed?”
Miles nodded. “And her legal guardian is now Tom Fortune.”
“Precisely,” Nat said. “Tom will never give his consent, because he would thereby lose out on claiming half of Lizzie’s fortune under the Dames’ Tax. In two months’ time he can take her twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Miles grimaced. “I see your problem.”
“What can be done?”
“You could elope with her to Gretna,” Miles said, “or apply for a special licence and swear on oath that the guardian had given his consent, knowing full well that he had not.”
“I would have to perjure myself,” Nat said, nodding.
“Effectively, yes.” Miles moved a chess piece idly. “Or, if the guardian was clearly a man—or woman—of dubious moral stature, you might find another reputable family member who could give their consent.” He shot his friend a look. “In Lizzie’s case we know that her guardian is a blackguard, but she also has an irreproachably respectable third cousin in the current Earl of Scarlet.”
“A man who has taken not the slightest interest in her welfare since he inherited from her father,” Nat said a little grimly.
“He would take an interest soon enough if he heard his cousin would one day be Duchess of Waterhouse,” Miles said, “and he would, I am sure, do all in his power to assist the match.”
Nat smiled reluctantly. “You are so cynical, old chap.”
“But also so very correct,” Miles drawled. “Scarlet Park is less than a half day’s ride to the west of here,” he added. “It would be a simple matter to sound Gregory Scarlet out.”
Nat shifted. “One further complicating factor…If I cannot persuade Lizzie to accept me…”
Miles laughed. “I suspect I should be offended that you think me the expert, albeit theoretically, on the carrying off of unwilling brides.”
“I remember you once contemplated carrying Alice off,” Nat murmured, “before you resorted to blackmailing her into marriage, of course.”
“Touché,” Miles said. “Abduction is the answer. You would also need to bribe a crooked clergyman. Not ideal, especially for one of your rarefied moral principles,” he added sardonically, “but it depends on how much you want the prize.”
There was a short silence. “I want the money,” Nat said, after a moment. “I need it very urgently.” He had toyed on more than one occasion with the idea of telling Miles and Dexter of his predicament, but in the end he had kept silent because he knew that both of them would advise him to tell Tom to go to hell and take his blackmail with him. They could not approve—how could they when they all worked for the Home Secretary to protect against criminal activity and he was contradicting every principle that they held sacred? Yet moral dilemmas were seldom so easy to resolve, Nat thought bitterly. He appreciated that now.
“You want the money but not the bride who goes with it?” Miles’s expression was suddenly sober. “My advice? Don’t do it, old fellow. A lifetime is a hell of a long time to be tied to a woman whom you don’t love.”
“The ultimate irony,” Nat said, “is that you, the most cynical amongst us, are always preaching to marry for love, Miles.”
Miles shrugged elegantly. “What can I say? I am a convert.”
“I care for Lizzie,” Nat said slowly. “I may not love her the way that you love Alice, but I care a damn sight more than Tom Fortune does for her as a sister. Is that so bad?”
He saw some expression change in Miles’s face. “I cannot answer that, Nathaniel,” Miles said slowly. “Only you and Lady Elizabeth can resolve that between you and I think you have already made up your mind.” He stood up and Nat had the strangest feeling that Miles not only knew something that he did not but also that he had, in some way, disappointed his oldest friend. He struggled with the thought. In his day Miles had been the most ruthless of fortune hunters, prepared to take risks that Nat would never contemplate. Miles was no hypocrite, so why would he disapprove of Nat marrying for money?
Miles held out his hand to shake in an oddly formal gesture. “Good luck, old fellow.”
“Thank you,” Nat said, taking his hand and wishing he did not have a strange and superstitious belief that Miles thought he would need all the luck in the world—and more—to get him through.
IT WAS VERY LATE the following day that Nat rode up to Fortune Hall. He had been to Lancashire and spent some time with the Earl of Scarlet, a meeting that had been congenial and had ended in a most satisfactory outcome as far as Nat was concerned. He did not like the man particularly—Gregory Scarlet was selfish and lazy and self-interested—but the Earl had agreed that Tom Fortune was not fit to be any young lady’s guardian and had been pleased to give his consent to a match between Nat and Lizzie. Now all Nat had to do was obtain Lizzie’s consent, a task he was all too aware was of far greater difficulty and complexity. As Nat approached Fortune Hall he wished that he had not been away for quite so long. He had felt uncomfortable leaving Lizzie to make the arrangements for Sir Montague’s funeral on her own—for Tom would hardly have put himself out to help—and he felt even less happy at leaving her at Tom’s mercy. As he rode up to the house his fear for Lizzie increased, for he could see the main door flung wide and the
candles blazing in every room. Something was clearly afoot. Shadowy figures moved behind the windows. Nat wondered for a moment whether Tom’s finances were so parlous that the bailiffs had already moved in to take everything, and then he heard the music and voices and laughter and realized that this was no house clearance and nor was it a wake for Sir Montague, either. It was a party. Tom was celebrating his brother’s death and his inheritance of the baronetcy and the estate. Tom, the ultimate hedonist, was dancing on his brother’s grave.
Lizzie. Nat’s heart contracted. He could hardly bear to think how Lizzie would fare alone and unprotected whilst her brother caroused with his drinking cronies. God knew, Tom Fortune was capable of any degraded and degrading thing imaginable, but would he involve his own sister in his amoral games? Perhaps he would if the price was right…
Nat dug his heels into the horse’s side and galloped the remainder of the way up the drive. He swung down out of the saddle and strode into the hallway, almost stumbling over one drunkard who lay insensible and muttering to himself in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. There was a goblet lying near him on the flagstones and red wine spilling out of it across the floor. Remembering Sir Montague’s attachment to his wine cellars, Nat wondered whether there was anything left or if it was all gone already.
Where was Lizzie?
The anxiety tightened within him.
In the great hall he found even more bacchanalian pleasures and the remains of a feast scattered over both the table and the floor, empty bottles rolling, and one of Lizzie’s dogs in a corner gnawing on a chicken carcass. A couple were fornicating noisily on the shiny surface of the long dinner table, the man’s boots gouging deep scratches into the wood, and in front of the window a rowdy group of men were enthusiastically taking turns with a woman who was spread-eagled over the back of a sofa. Her breasts had escaped from her loose bodice; her skirts and petticoats were hitched up to reveal a pink garter, rounded thighs and plump buttocks. Nat paused, recognizing Ethel, the barmaid at the Morris Clown Inn, though he had never seen her in quite this position before. No, he thought, after a moment as he took in her dizzily blissful expression, Ethel did not require his aid in any shape or form. She was having as good a time as her partners.
Another man took his turn with Ethel, tumbling her over so that he could take her a different way and the girl screamed in pleasure. Nat moved on, stepping over the prone bodies of yet more drunks, avoiding a man who was being sick in the fireplace, looking for Tom, looking for Lizzie…
The fear he felt for her transcended every other emotion. This was like a scene from hell, so much worse than anything he had imagined. How could he have left her with this?
He went out into the hall again and caught a glimpse of a blond woman whisking through a doorway and out of sight. She was patting into place a sky-blue gown and the back of her head looked vaguely familiar. Dismissing the thought, Nat opened the door of the room she had vacated and found Tom Fortune in his brother’s study, lying back in a chair, booted feet up on the desk, pantaloons unfastened, a wine bottle in one hand, papers and books scattered about him. He had evidently been enjoying both the attentions of the woman and the contents of the bottle very recently. He raised the wine to his lips, took a long swallow and then wiped his mouth carelessly on his sleeve. His gaze was both inebriated and insolent as it rested on Nat.
“Delicious,” he drawled. There was humor deep in his eyes. “You have no idea, Waterhouse…”
“Where’s Lizzie?” Nat demanded, grabbing Tom by his cravat and pulling him up out of the chair. “Where is she?”
“What do you want with her?” Tom slurred. “My property, my business.”
“I’ve come to take her away,” Nat said. “I’m going to marry her.” He watched Tom’s face crumple with shock and anger.
“You?” Tom said. “Damned if you will. You won’t cheat me out of her money.” His eyes narrowed. “Lizzie is not yet one and twenty and I’m her guardian. Rich, isn’t it?” Suddenly he laughed uproariously. “She cannot wed without my permission and I refuse it.”
“I thought of that,” Nat said steadily. He patted his pocket. “Gregory Scarlet supersedes you. I have his written agreement. No one will quarrel with that, I think.”
Tom’s face twisted into a mask of malice and hatred. “Bastard!” he hissed. “I’ll see you damned. If you don’t pay me—”
“You’ll get your blackmail money,” Nat said, “as soon as I can borrow on the promise of Lizzie’s fortune.”
For a moment he thought Tom was going to hit him, but then Tom shrugged, reaching for the bottle again. “Take her, then,” he said indifferently. “What’s left of her.” He glanced at the clock. “Thought I’d let some of my friends have a turn with her. They were hot to bed her and I thought it was a good idea. Thought that no one was likely to want to wed her after they had all ploughed her, so I’d get to keep all her money. Even you might think twice, Waterhouse.” Once again his gaze was a narrow, malicious gleam. “Other men’s leavings…How much do you want that money?”
Nat threw him violently back into his chair but Tom’s laughter followed him out of the room. Terror gripped Nat’s heart. He took the stairs two at a time, slipping on the uneven oak treads, praying that he was not too late. He turned a dark corner and tripped over an entwined pair of lovers on the floor. Another blond woman…Not Lizzie, thank God.
“Lizzie!” he yelled. Someone swore at him.
“Lizzie!” He could hear the ragged fear in his own voice.
He tried a door. It was locked. He hammered on it. Several voices howled at him to go away. He steadied himself to break it down and then—
“Nat.” Lizzie’s voice, behind him. He turned and saw her standing in the pool of light from her bedroom. She was in her nightgown and the light shone through the transparent lawn of the material and illuminated her, hollows, curves and shadows, in a gentle glow. Her auburn hair was down and flamed in the candlelight. Nat’s mouth dried at the sight. He thought that if any of those jaded libertines even caught a glimpse of her they would die to have her.
“Tally ho!” Sir Wilfred Hooper, the magistrate from the next parish, was galloping down the landing brandishing a hunting crop as he chased a couple of squealing women. He paused when he saw Lizzie and his mouth dropped open. “I say!” he spluttered.
Nat grabbed Lizzie’s arm and bundled her into her bedroom, locking the door behind them.
“I say, Waterhouse,” Sir Wilfred said plaintively, banging on the other side of the thick oak panels, “share and share alike!”
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie was saying, grabbing a robe from the bed and flinging it about her shoulders, “I did not hear you calling me, Nat. If I had known you were here I would have let you in sooner.”
She scrambled back onto the bed and tucked her feet under the covers. Perched there in her swansdown-trimmed robe, with her hair falling loose about her shoulders she looked young, like a child in a fairy tale. Nat started to wonder if he was in a dream rather than an orgy. Everything that was happening seemed so unreal. Then he saw the pistol on Lizzie’s nightstand and saw that she was shivering and shaking like a dog left out in the rain. It was real enough; hateful, intolerable for her to be subjected to Tom’s loathsome whims like this.
Lizzie followed his gaze. “I judged it better to be safe than sorry,” she said. “I thought that if anyone tried to break in and rape me—” For a moment she looked so lost that Nat’s heart seemed to skip a beat. She turned her head and in the candlelight he saw the marks of tears on her cheeks.
“Lizzie,” he said. He sat down on the end of the bed. “What happened?”
She shrugged her slight shoulders under the robe. “Tonight? Just one of Tom’s orgies.” She met his gaze and sighed. “He did not come back until an hour ago. I had already retired.” She gestured to her nightclothes. “As you see.”
“Have you been locked in here all the time?” Nat asked. He tried to keep a grip on his temper. Every p
rimitive impulse he had was directed on going back downstairs and tearing Tom Fortune apart, but every protective one he possessed forced him to stay with Lizzie.
“I went down to speak to Tom when he first returned,” Lizzie said. Her head was bent, her hair falling forward in a thick curtain to hide her face. “So stupid of me, but he was alone at first and I was tired and not thinking straight and I wanted to consult him about Monty’s burial. I did not realize he had invited all his cronies to join him—” She stopped, shuddering a little. “When I saw that he was drunk I asked him to show a little respect with Monty’s body still lying next door.” She shuddered again. “He said that Monty could rot in there for all he cared and then he—”She gulped. “He…”
Nat grabbed her hand. “What, Lizzie?”
“He killed Mrs. Broad’s chicken and threw it on the fire!” Lizzie wailed. “He said he had brought it in lieu of payment of tax and it was just the first of many fines he was going to inflict now he was squire and he might as well cook and eat it there and then!” She gulped in a breath, the tears shining on her cheeks again. “I hate him!” she said vehemently.
Nat drew her into his arms and stroked her back as she cried against his coat.
“Then he said he was going to hire me out—whore me out was the phrase he used—to his friends,” Lizzie finished, muffled. “He said he wanted all my money, so he had to be sure no one wished to marry me so they might as well make use of me. I ran up here and grabbed my pistol and barricaded the door. They came for me,” she added, “but they couldn’t get in and soon they got bored and turned to easier game.”
“Christ, Lizzie…” Nat pressed his lips to her hair. He was shaking with rage and with despair that she had had to suffer this. “He’s mad,” he said. “He has lost his mind.”
Undoing of a Lady Page 11