“On what charge?” Beckett said, snatching the paper away.
Looking quite bored with the matter, the old man straightened his cuffs and answered, “Murder.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The magistrate continued, “Your wife is accused of the murder of Mr. Edward Langley, her late guardian. Well, where is she, Lord Ravenwood? The constables will take her into custody until trial.”
“Until trial?” Beckett said, trying to make sense of this. “Who is Edward Langley? And why would you think that Lady Ravenwood could be guilty of killing him?”
“We have witnesses, sir, who claim to have seen the former Miss Isobel Hampton stab her guardian to death at Hampton House, Cadogan Place, a week ago.”
“You must be mistaken, Lord Palmerston,” Beckett replied. “I know nothing of Hampton House. My wife has never mentioned such a place to me.”
“I assure you,” Lord Palmerston said, “she is Isobel Hampton, late of Hampton House, and soon to be of Newgate Prison.”
“She is not here,” Beckett said, folding his arms. “She has gone to visit a family friend.”
Lord Palmerston did not look pleased at this news. “And what would be the name of this ‘friend?’”
“Lady Withypoll Weston, of Broomely Park, Luton,” Alfred’s eccentric great aunt would be thrilled to have visitors.
“I shall send constables to fetch her then,” Palmerston said, clearly perturbed that his quarry was not immediately at hand.
“You must know these charges are pure flummery,” Beckett stated.
“That remains to be seen,” Palmerston said. “You sound very confident about the character of a woman you’ve known only a week, Lord Ravenwood.”
At the man’s blunt words, Beckett felt uncertainty slowly spreading through his veins, dark and bitter as cold coffee. Alfred’s warnings about taking Isobel home that night echoed in his head. Who was this mysterious girl he had married?
Beckett didn’t know the answer.
“I shall ask you to leave now, Lord Palmerston,” Beckett said, crossly.
The magistrate opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Beckett’s valet slammed the door in his face.
“Well done, Hartley,” Beckett said.
“Shall we go and look for Lady Ravenwood, my lord?” Hartley asked.
“Yes, but first you must have a message sent to Lord Weston,” Beckett said, quickly donning his jacket. “We shall need his help in this. If we find Lady Ravenwood, we must take her back to Lord Weston’s townhouse. I’m sure Palmerston will have someone watching this place.”
“Thank goodness Lady Ravenwood went out for a walk when she did,” Hartley remarked.
“Yes,” Beckett said, “very convenient of her to disappear just before a magistrate came to arrest her for murder, wasn’t it?”
“You don’t think—” the servant began, aghast.
“I have no idea what to think, Hartley, but we’d better find Lady Ravenwood before they do,” Beckett replied. “I’d like to ask my wife a few questions of my own.”
Chapter 10
It was hopeless. She was completely lost.
Street after busy street seemed to be populated with the same people, the same carriages nearly running her over, and the same hawkers advertising their sweetbreads and pastries.
Isobel brushed aside a curl from her face and tried to look like she knew where she was going. All the while, she kept her eyes alert for Sir Harry. She didn’t bother looking for Beckett. There was no chance her husband would pursue her. Surely Sir Harry’s cronies had come to the house by now, telling their lies.
At times, Isobel would think she spotted Sir Harry moving in the crowd ahead of her. Hot fear would rip through her gut like a pistol ball. Then she’d see that it wasn’t him at all, yet the whisper of terror would follow her like a ghost.
“Ow!” Isobel stumbled on a loose cobblestone and lost her shoe. Quickly, she placed it back on her foot before a hungry-looking dog could snatch it out of her hands. “Go away! Shoo!”
The dog snarled at her, then ran off after some other prize.
Isobel resumed walking, wondering where on earth she was going to spend the night. Perhaps a church would offer her shelter. At least she looked like a proper lady, although walking the streets of London by herself, even in daylight, was anything but.
Her feet began to ache. These shoes were not designed for anything more strenuous than sitting down with needlepoint in her lap. How long had she been walking? And how much farther would she have to go before she could stop?
She had no money and nothing of value to trade or pawn…except for herself.
Certainly, she could have taken the emerald jewelry Beckett had given her to wear to the ball. Or she could have ripped the expensive lace and pearl trimmings from some of her dresses and sold them to a dressmaker.
It was hard to know what to pack when you were fleeing for your life. Wasn’t that how she’d ended up in the alley in nothing but her nightdress that horrible evening?
Taking the emeralds, or the expensive trimmings that Beckett had given her would have been theft. And though money would have been helpful, she could not steal from the man who had rescued her.
Somehow, she would manage.
Isobel stared at the busy street before her, hoping she could manage to get across it without getting herself killed.
A carriage charged in front of her, practically spinning her around like a child’s top. When the dust settled, she turned to cross again, but stopped when a huge white stallion blocked her way. Could these Londoners be any more rude? Looking up, she shielded her eyes from the mid-day sun to see the rider.
Beckett.
His blue eyes flashed as he swung a leg over the saddle and hopped to the ground.
Isobel turned to run, but he was immediately upon her, strong hands grabbing her arms and jerking her out of the middle of the street.
“And just where do you think you’re going, my charming little countess?” he asked, his face towering above her, blocking out the sun.
“I—I went for a walk and I became lost,” she stammered, trying to free herself from his grip, but his powerful hands held her prisoner.
“Lost?” Beckett replied. “You managed to get yourself halfway across the city! Very conveniently, I might add. You had some callers this morning. Lord Palmerston and his constables.”
Isobel felt the blood drain from her face. “Lord Palmerston—”
“He came to arrest you for murder,” Beckett said gruffly. “Why would anyone suspect you of such a thing? And why didn’t you tell me about Hampton House?”
Isobel struggled to break her husband’s hold, but Beckett mercilessly tightened his grip.
“What are you hiding?” he demanded.
She squirmed and wrenched free, darting into the busy street. Would he turn her over to Palmerston, as Sir Harry had claimed?
“Isobel!” Beckett shouted from close behind her.
Fear pulsed through her blood as she dashed between carriages and horses, but it wasn’t from the danger of the street traffic. It was her husband she feared.
It was all over, now. She had lied to the man who had saved her life. And now, he too, would abandon her.
She was almost across the street. Was he still behind her? She dared a quick look over her shoulder and didn’t see him.
As she turned her head to look forward, she saw the strangest sight. It seemed to be happening so slowly, yet she knew that the curricle bearing down on her was travelling terribly fast—so fast that she couldn’t get out of the way in time.
She was going to die.
Merciful heavens, she was going to die!
Suddenly she was flying. The ground came up to meet her and she hit it with a breathtaking thud. A heavy weight pressed down on her and she tried vainly to get a breath, but the wind was knocked out of her.
Strong hands yanked her up and thumped upon her back. In a moment, her lun
gs found the breath they’d been struggling for, and she closed her eyes in relief.
“That was bloody stupid!”
She opened her eyes and she saw Beckett fuming down at her. Isobel fought against his grip but knew it was fruitless.
“Let go of me, you great oaf!” she cried.
“Oaf, you say?” he barked. “Well, if that’s the thanks I get for saving your life, I should have let the blasted curricle run you down.”
Beckett grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer toward his hard, muscular chest, saying, “Call me ‘touched-in-the-head,’ but I have a strange aversion to becoming a widower in the same week that I was married. And I do not like to be lied to by my wife, do you understand?”
He continued, “To say I am curious to hear what possible explanation there could be for all this—starting with why you ran away this morning—is putting it mildly. Promise me you will never do anything so foolish as that again.”
Momentarily silenced by his words, Isobel nodded. A faint glimmer of hope shone in her heart. Would he listen to her, then?
“Good,” he said, finally. “Obeying your husband—very good. Yet, I think you need more improvement in that regard.” He put his hand around her shoulder and steered her down the street. “I am taking you to Alfred’s townhouse in Warwick Square.”
“Lord Weston? But why?”
“They will be waiting for you at Covington Place,” Beckett explained. “I told them you’ve gone visiting Alfred’s Great Aunt Withypoll at her home in Luton, but I don’t think they quite believed me. So we will stay at Alfred’s until we sort out what to do. And I would like a quiet place in which to hear your answers to this murder charge. Just because I didn’t wring your lovely little neck doesn’t mean you are forgiven.”
The ride to Alfred’s townhouse was terribly quiet. Isobel stared out the window of the hired coach and tried to collect her thoughts. So much had happened today, it was difficult to make sense of it all. So instead, she watched the city go by as the coach rolled toward Lord Weston’s home in Warwick Square.
What would Beckett do to her? Would he wash his hands of her, and turn her over to her enemies? Many men in his position would do exactly that.
But surely, Beckett was not a cruel man. He was angry with her, and would probably be even more so before she was through explaining the truth of the matter. But would he have come looking for her if he didn’t care?
He must have felt the weight of her stare, because he glanced at her with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. Then he looked away, dismissively.
His indifference felt like a slap, but Isobel couldn’t blame him. He’d made it very clear how things stood between them. Beckett was her husband. She was his property in the eyes of the law, and therefore her life was very much in his hands.
Sir Harry’s threat echoed in her ears. Would Beckett believe her story after he realized she’d been lying to him about everything? If he didn’t, what would her fate be then?
Oh, this would not do. She had to get her head on straight before the carriage reached Lord Weston’s home. She wanted to be calm when she told Beckett her story. She needed to be calm, because the truth would bring the horror of that night back to torment her.
In far too short a time, the coach stopped in front of an opulent townhouse. Beckett got out of the cab and handed her down onto the street.
He looked at her silently before mounting the steps to the great oak door. Before Beckett could knock, it opened, and a gray-haired butler ushered them in.
Beckett addressed the man. “Crandall, will you tell Lord Weston—”
“That you are here, yes, yes,” Lord Weston finished, bounding down the staircase. He took Isobel’s hand in his and kissed it. “Are you alright, my dear lady? We have been looking for hours. Beckett, is she alright?”
“Yes, Alfred, she is in perfectly good health,” Beckett replied, darkly.
Isobel felt a wave of fear infuse her veins. She didn’t think she could bear the ugly scene that was surely only minutes away. But she would have to, just as she had borne everything else.
“We have need of lodgings, Alfred,” Beckett continued. “May we presume upon your hospitality?”
“Of course you shall stay here,” Alfred replied. “Now what’s this about Hartley wanting to stash Isobel out of Lord Palmerston’s clutches? Has your man been reading penny novels again?”
“Those questions will be answered in due time,” Beckett said, glancing at Isobel. “But for now, may we use your library? I hate to be a boor, but I need to speak with my wife. Alone.”
Isobel tried to calm her beating heart. It felt as if a bird were trapped inside, beating its wings furiously to escape.
Alfred guided them down the hall to a huge book-lined library. “I shall have Crandall bring some tea.”
“Thank you, Alfred. My wife is in need of refreshment, I expect,” Beckett said, opening a cupboard and brought out a decanter and crystal glass. “But I require something stronger.”
Alfred gave a nod and left them alone.
Beckett lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and downed a mouthful.
“Shall we begin?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in question. “And I warn you, my good humor is back at my townhouse. I believe I left it in the front hall when Hartley opened the door for Lord Palmerston and his scandalous accusations about you. Perhaps you should start by telling me about Hampton House.”
Isobel met his eyes and took a deep breath, saying “It is my family’s London home, on Cadogan Place.”
“Go on,” he prodded.
“I told you that my parents died in a carriage accident a little over a year ago, and that is true. I was left in the care of Mr. Edward Langley, my guardian. He was a very kind man.” At the memory, Isobel felt a lump forming in her throat.
“He was murdered?” Beckett said.
“Yes,” Isobel answered.
“But not by you?”
In her mind’s eye she could see the fondness that had always swept over Edward Langley’s face at the sight of her, and her heart knotted painfully in her breast. She forced herself to continue, “I was there. I saw it happen.”
A knock sounded at the door and Crandall brought in a gleaming silver tray. “Tea, m’lord,” he said, then smoothly exited the room.
“Continue, my dear,” Beckett said.
Isobel took a deep breath. “I’d heard an argument, so I came downstairs to see what was going on. I hid in the dark hallway, but when I heard him stab Mr. Langley, I screamed, and he saw me.”
“Who saw you?”
“Sir Harry Lennox,” she replied, her voice shaking.
“What reason would he have to kill your guardian?”
“He wants the Hampton estate, and he wants me,” Isobel said. “Sir Harry is a distant cousin of my late father’s, and insists that he is the true heir. But my father left the estate to me, as was his right. Sir Harry tried to strike a bargain with Mr. Langley to purchase my hand in marriage. If Langley helped him force me into marriage, Sir Harry promised to pay him a large sum once he got his hands on the Hampton fortune. But my dear guardian would have none of it. That’s why Sir Harry killed him.”
“Tell me more about this Lennox,” Beckett commanded.
Isobel swallowed, trying to calm her nerves. But relating the tale to Beckett brought everything back regarding the horrible night Mr. Langley was killed…and she had tried so hard to forget.
She forced herself to continue, “As I said, he was a distant cousin of my father’s. After my parents’ funerals, he produced what he said was a valid will which was only recently discovered, saying my father had left the estate to him. But Mr. Langley confirmed with our lawyers that the document was a forgery. Yet this did not dissuade Sir Harry in the least. He swore he would be master of Hampton Park, and master of me as well.”
Beckett asked, “Hampton Park is your family seat, I assume?”
Isobel nodded, the thought of her b
eloved family home almost bringing tears to her eyes. “Yes, in Hertfordshire. My father was William Hampton, 4th Baron Pomeroy.”
Beckett continued, “Which makes you, as your father’s sole heir, Baroness Pomeroy in your own right.”
“Yes,” Isobel answered. “That’s why I ran. I had to protect the estate, and myself, from Sir Harry’s clutches.”
“And that’s how you came to be on the street the night that I found you,” Beckett said.
“I broke free from Sir Harry,” she explained, “then I ran and ran until I had no more strength. The next thing I remember is waking in your bed.”
“And this Palmerston fellow,” Beckett continued. “What sort of evidence could he have against you?”
“Whatever Sir Harry presented to him. He’s a very persuasive man,” Isobel explained. She searched Beckett’s eyes, but they gave away nothing. “Sir Harry found me at the Whitcomb ball. He took me out into the gardens—”
Beckett set the glass down on the desk and took a step toward her. “To the garden? You went with him willingly?”
“Certainly not! Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” she asked. “When he had me alone, he threatened me. He told me he would have no trouble convincing you that we were lovers—so that you would refuse to protect me.”
“And how do I know you aren’t lovers?” Beckett asked, darkly.
Isobel’s temper flared. “How dare you say such a thing?”
“Forgive me, Isobel, but I’ve no experience in accusing a wife of being unfaithful. Is there a trick to it I don’t know?” he said flippantly.
Before she knew what she was about, Isobel slapped him.
All the anguish and desperation of the past weeks erupted from her heart and found its target in the man before her. She beat her fists against his chest and flailed in his arms as Beckett struggled to hold her.
“Isobel!”
She struggled against him. “Get your hands off me!”
“Isobel, stop it!” Beckett shouted, quickly winning the physical battle and holding her immobile in his strong, unyielding arms.
“Let me go,” she demanded, hotly.
He ignored her, holding her effortlessly against him.
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