by Juliana Gray
TWELVE
Old Bailey
July 1890
The prosecution had rested its case the day before, winding up with a bravura performance by an inspector from Scotland Yard, who had reenacted a veritable Shakespearean swordfight to demonstrate his contention that the killing had been an act of passion, committed by a man with great strength, so gruesome and extensive were the wounds upon the Duchess of Southam’s deceased body when she was found by her maid at a quarter to eleven, draped across a chaise longue in her boudoir.
After that staggering drama, Stefanie was the one to suggest that the defense begin its case with a counterdemonstration of Hatherfield’s gentler side, his capability for tenderness. Witnesses had been duly shuffled about. But now that Eleanor, Viscountess Chesterton, sat in the witness’s box, her black mourning dress draped about her slender figure, her lace-edged handkerchief dabbing at her eyes, Stefanie wondered whether she should have left well enough alone.
“The dearest brother in the world,” she was repeating to Mr. Duckworth, in cross-examination.
“Indeed, madam. As you described earlier, in full detail. Pony rides, picnics, et cetera. Presumably your mother shared in this . . . this shower of attention he bestowed on you and your sisters?”
“Well . . . that is . . .” Her hands played about with her handkerchief. “My mother wasn’t the sort of mother who . . . What I mean to say is . . .”
“No, she didn’t?”
Lady Eleanor looked down. “She did not.”
“I see. Did she and Lord Hatherfield engage at all in an affectionate manner, common to happy families?”
“Not often.” A whisper.
Mr. Duckworth nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Despite his affectionate behavior to you and your sisters. How curious. And did you notice anything unusual about his behavior, in the weeks leading up to your mother’s murder?”
“Why . . .” She cast a quick glance at her brother, where he stood in the dock, watching her with a kind expression. “No more than . . .” She stopped.
“Yes, your ladyship? There was something?”
“Nothing of consequence.”
“May I remind you, your ladyship, that you are under oath? That your own mother’s murder demands justice?”
“But he didn’t do it! He couldn’t do it, not James!” She made a wretched sob against her handkerchief.
“Your loyalty to your brother does you credit, of course,” Mr. Duckworth said greasily. “But he was acting a bit out of character, wasn’t he?”
“A bit, but that was only because . . .”
Mr. Duckworth tilted his head and smiled. “Yes, your ladyship?”
She gathered herself. “He was a little less attentive to us, that’s all. To his sisters. He was in the habit of seeing me often, after my marriage, and when my little daughter was born, why, he was the most devoted uncle. He would read her stories and let my dear, sweet baby fall asleep on his shoulder. He . . .”
“Yes, madam. But in the weeks before the murder?”
Lady Eleanor twisted her handkerchief and cast another nervous glance at Hatherfield. “He didn’t visit as much.”
“How often?”
“Not . . . Well, not at all. But he had many affairs to attend to. His houses, and . . .”
Mr. Duckworth cupped his ear. “Yes, my dear?”
“And I don’t know.” She said it emphatically.
Mr. Duckworth lowered his hand and captured it with the other, twiddling his thumbs together as he paced across the courtroom. “I see. Let us turn, if you will, to the events of the night of the murder. You were in attendance at the house of your parents, in Belgrave Square, were you not? At the ball?”
“I was.”
“And how would you describe the behavior of Lord Hatherfield that evening?”
“He was . . . He was as he always is. Dear and charming. He danced with me.”
“And then what did he do?”
She wet her lips. “He danced with another guest.”
“And who was this other guest?”
“Why, I don’t know. None of us knew her.”
“Was she lovely, this mysterious lady of Lord Hatherfield’s?”
Another glance at her brother. “She was wearing a mask, of course. But yes, I would say that she was very beautiful.”
“Ah. Now then. Let me summarize all this, for the better understanding of the court. You say that Lord Hatherfield had appeared distracted, during the weeks previous to the night in question. In contrast to his earlier habits of frequent visitation, of attentiveness to you and your daughter, his infant niece, Lord Hatherfield did not visit you at all. And then, on the night in question, his lordship, the accused, spent much of his time dancing with a beautiful young lady, with whom you and your family were not acquainted.”
Stefanie’s cheeks burned. She didn’t dare look at Hatherfield. She turned her face down to the paper before her and pretended to scribble earnestly at her notes.
“Not all his time. They disappeared . . .” Lady Eleanor stopped short, and a flush, not dissimilar to that on Stefanie’s cheeks, spread across her face.
“Oh! They disappeared together. I see.”
“But not . . . It was well before my mother retired . . .” She checked herself again, and her blush grew even rosier.
“There’s no need to continue, your ladyship. I believe we have established the sequence of the night’s events to the satisfaction of the court.”
Lady Eleanor settled herself more comfortably into her seat. “Of course.”
“Oh. One further question, your ladyship, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, Mr. Duckworth?”
“The purpose of this ball.”
“The purpose?” This time, Lady Eleanor stared directly at Mr. Duckworth, avoiding the sight of her brother with studied determination. “Why, to amuse ourselves, of course. That is what balls are for, Mr. Duckworth.”
“Yes, yes. But balls are generally held in honor of some person, some event, are they not, your ladyship? A birthday, a young lady’s coming of age.” He smiled faintly. “An engagement.”
“Yes, they often are.”
“And this ball. Did your parents have some particular object in mind, to your knowledge?”
Lady Eleanor drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.
“Yes, your ladyship? What was the object of this particular ball, on this particular night? Some surprise announcement, was it not?”
She looked down in her lap.
“Your oath, your ladyship,” Mr. Duckworth said gently.
Lady Eleanor raised her head and looked helplessly at her brother. “They were going to announce his engagement. My brother’s engagement to Lady Charlotte Harlowe. They said he had agreed to it at last.”
THIRTEEN
Putney Bridge, London
Mid-February 1890
Stefanie arrived at Putney Bridge at a quarter past four, just to be safe. The sky was still ash dark and the cobblestones slick with fog, and she nearly fell on her arse twice as she made her way down the lane to the riverside.
Possibly she shouldn’t have dismissed the hansom quite so soon.
Still, a sort of Gothic magic did lurk about the river at this hour. A quiet expectancy of heavy gray stone and yellow mist and lapping wavelets. Behind her, on the high street, a set of hooves and wheels clattered wearily along a delivery run. She pulled her hat low on her forehead and walked along the riverbank, until the steep edge gave way to a slope suitable for the launching of boats. A row of houses lined the other side of the lane, with large carriage doors facing the water, all closed tight. The boathouses.
Stefanie found a seat on an overturned barrel and crossed her arms against the February chill. Inside her jacket pocket, the sheet of folded newspaper from last night’s evening edition lay crisply against her chest. She took out her watch: four twenty-eight. The ungodliness of it.
She leaned against the wall of the boathouse and let h
er eyelids sink downward, just for a second.
“Stefanie! What the devil are you doing here?”
Stefanie scrambled to her feet before the outraged face of the Marquess of Hatherfield.
“There you are!”
“Of course, here I am! You’re supposed to be safe in Cadogan Square!” His hands were planted firmly on his hips, and his eyes, beneath the brim of his hat, flashed and snapped in the dim glow of the streetlamp. “Instead of asleep on a barrel next to the damned river at five o’clock in the morning!”
“I had to see you.” She paused. “Was I really asleep?”
“Out like a light, you numbskull. Come on inside, before you catch a chill.” He turned to the carriage door and fumbled with the lock.
She smiled at the sight of him, all tall and trustworthy in his thick black overcoat, heaving the massive door open. She couldn’t help it. Even in his outrage, he was outrageously handsome, and he was hers. All hers, every golden hair and charming wink and taut sinew of him.
Oh, very well. True, he hadn’t kissed her since that night in her room, three months ago. He avoided every possible point of physical contact with her entirely, to be perfectly honest. But he was there, every day, in the breakfast room in Cadogan Square. He waited outside Sir John’s chambers as noon chimed the nearby tower of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, ate lunch with her at a tavern or tea shop—never the same establishment two days running—and returned her safely to her place of employment, except on the days she accompanied Sir John to court. Everywhere she went, he followed her like a faithful old hound, safeguarding her against every possible threat, casting a suspicious eye at every shadow in her path. At mealtimes they talked and talked, about the law and her work with Sir John, about European politics and palace intrigue, about Stefanie’s childhood in Holstein Castle, about books and science and gossip. On weekends they rode in the park and went on outings to Hampton Court and Windsor and Hampstead Heath. He showed her Eton, where he went to school, and pointed out the playing field where he’d had a tooth knocked out playing rugby. He’d showed her the replacement and tapped it importantly. “Not a bad facsimile, is it?” he’d said, and when she said she might have to make a closer examination, he’d laughed and pulled away.
Laughed and pulled away, every time. But she knew what it cost him. The more lighthearted and charming his manner, the more he wanted her; each laugh covered an inward groan of desire. And made her adore him even more, because how could you not love a man of that much strength? Of that much pure devotion?
Except at certain moments, when they were unexpectedly alone, and surrounded by darkness and privacy, and the intimate tension between them wound so tight it seemed the air itself might shatter into pieces.
Such as now. When he pulled her inside the boathouse and took her by the shoulders.
“What were you thinking? Coming here alone, falling asleep on the street like that!”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She smiled. How could she not smile at his passionate face, fraught with worry for her? “Anyway, I knew you’d be along any minute.”
“And what if I hadn’t?”
“Hatherfield, it’s Putney. Nothing ever happens in Putney.”
“You’d be surprised.” He set her away grimly and turned to the boats, stacked up high along the walls. “So what brought you here, eh? Risking life and limb?”
“Yes. That.” She reached inside her coat, brought out the newspaper clipping, and poked his arm. “Read this.”
He unfolded the page. “‘LOST PRINCESS FOUND! GERMAN ROYALTY LIVING IN LONDON WITH DUKE OF OLYMPIA; RUMORED ROMANCE WITH ENGLISH LORD; PRIME MINISTER ASSURES PARLIAMENT “WE HAVE NO INTEREST OR INFLUENCE” IN MATTER OF HOLSTEIN-SCHWEINWALD-HUHNHOF.’” He put down the paper. “I see.”
She grabbed the clipping back and shook it at him. “But look! It’s not me they’re writing about. It’s Emilie!”
“Your sister. Yes.”
“My sister! Hatherfield, she’s here in London! London! With my uncle!”
He took the paper back. “So it appears.”
“She’s living in Park Lane this very minute, she’s out of her disguise. Something must have happened, Hatherfield, because I had a letter from her a fortnight ago, and she was still in Yorkshire somewhere, tutoring, and everything was fine.” She strode to the door and looked out across the dark river to the anemic yellow glow of London. “Something’s happened, Hatherfield, someone’s discovered her, or she’d never have come back to our uncle’s house.”
“One of Olympia’s plots, I expect.”
She turned. He was frowning ferociously at the newspaper, as if to frighten the truth from its pages. Stern, fierce. But not surprised.
“You knew!”
“What’s that?”
“You knew she was here! You knew about all of this! You and Olympia and . . . oh! And you didn’t tell me!”
“There was no point. You can’t see her. You can’t have any sort of contact with her.”
She strode up and took him by the lapels. “How long have you known? How long?”
“A week or two.” He had the grace to look guilty. “We didn’t want you to go off and do something harebrained . . .”
She gave him a good shake. “Harebrained! How dare you! You know I wouldn’t have done anything without consulting you first.”
He plucked her hands away, one by one. “But then you’d have gone off and done the harebrained thing anyway, regardless of my advice. My expert advice, I might add. I do know what I’m doing in these matters, Stefanie.”
“Ooh.” She turned away. She couldn’t speak, she was so angry. All last week, all those breakfasts and dinners, those hansom journeys, those rides in the park. They’d gone to the theater on Saturday. David Copperfield. And all that time, he knew. He knew where her sister was, he knew she was—good God!—not even a mile away!
“Don’t be cross, Stefanie. Olympia agreed with me, we both thought it best. The thing is . . .”
“Who is he?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The man she’s supposedly in love with. The English lord. I presume it’s the man Olympia placed her with. He seems to have a knack for matchmaking of that sort, the old meddler. I suppose he thinks it will keep us distracted and out of trouble.”
“Stefanie . . .”
“I know already that he’s from somewhere in Yorkshire. Miss Dingleby told me, before we all left. A widower, obviously. He’s got a son, about sixteen or so, the one she’s tutoring. I could find out myself, so you might as well tell me.”
Hatherfield made some restless movement behind her. “It’s Ashland. The Duke of Ashland. I’ve only met him once or twice, but he was legendary in his time, absolutely untouchable, until he was injured in some godforsaken mountain pass in Afghanistan a dozen years ago. She’s in good hands, I assure you.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that. Look at the magnificent specimen Olympia chose for me. You’ve done your job perfectly.”
“Don’t be unfair. You know my sole object is your safety.”
She turned back to face him. “Well, obviously something’s gone wrong, or my uncle would never have taken Emilie out of her disguise and gone public like this. Something’s happened. What is it?”
He hesitated only slightly. “I don’t know, actually. Olympia’s asked me to stay away from it. He’s got his own men on the case, and frankly, I want you well away from it.”
“I’m not a fool, Hatherfield.”
“It’s the truth. I believe the duke found her out, that’s all, and . . .”
“And brought her down to London, and put her in danger.”
“I rather think it’s the opposite. If I know Ashland, he wants to end things, once and for all.”
Stefanie took him by the arms. “We’ve got to find out. You’ve got to help me, I’ve got to speak to her!”
“Now, wait a moment . . .”
“You don’t understand. If she’s in danger . . .”
She let the sentence dangle. The possibility was too awful to contemplate.
Hatherfield folded the newspaper and handed it to her, forcing her to release his arms. “She’s well protected. She’s got Olympia and Ashland by her side, and I’d like to see the bloody fool anarchist who thinks he can get through the two of them combined. No, she’s well enough as she is, for the time being.” He picked up her fingers and held them lightly between his own, right next to his chest. “The question is you. Whether you’re in danger. Because if this Revolutionary Brigade of yours has discovered your sister’s disguise . . .”
“They might have discovered mine.”
The faint clatter of hoofbeats invaded the heavy silence between them. Stefanie held Hatherfield’s gaze as they listened together to the rhythm of iron on cobblestone, to the squeak of axles in need of oil, louder and louder and louder, the harness now jingling. Hatherfield’s hands tightened around hers; his keen eyes grew keener, the eyebrows nearly meeting, as if he were trying to transmit some sort of message across the cloppity-clop, jingle-jingle, rattly-rattly-rattle, louder and louder.
And then, almost imperceptibly, softer. Softer and softer, and then it was gone, and only the waves slapped against the boat landing, and a dustman hallooed to another.
Stefanie let out her breath. Hatherfield bent his head and pressed his lips into her knuckles, and his breath spread warmth across her skin.
“Hatherfield,” she whispered, because she couldn’t speak.
He lifted his head and drew one hand away from hers to cup her cheek. “I will not let them harm a hair on your head, do you understand me? Not a hair. You have nothing at all to worry about.”
“But my sister. I have to see her. You have to help me. If she’s in trouble . . .”
“She’s well taken care of, I assure you.”
“Please.” Tears leaked shamefully from the corners of her eyes, and she never cried! What was happening to her? As if some bandage had been ripped away from the surface of her heart, leaving it raw. She felt Hatherfield’s thumb move on her face, brushing at a tear. “Please. She’s my sister. Please help me see her. Just once, just to see she’s all right.”