After the Scandal

by Elizabeth Essex

  Rosing’s gaze darted unevenly back and forth between the two of them, and then at the door, as if he might find some salvation there. But perhaps he realized he wouldn’t, because he looked back to Claire before he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His voice was a dry weak scrawl, and Tanner saw Claire, being the kind-hearted person she was, transfer her gaze to the glass of water on the table.

  “Should I give him water, Claire, for his dry throat? Or should I break his other leg, so he tells you the truth?”

  She flinched a little at the violence in his voice. But not as much as Rosing, who looked like he was trying to crawl out of the bed.

  Tanner leaned his weight onto the sheets, trapping the man beneath the linen. “What’s it to be, Claire?”

  He heard her deep inhalation. “The leg.”

  “No.” Rosing’s protest was stronger. “No, please. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “The maid,” Tanner clarified for him. “The maid you raped before you tried to rape Lady Claire Jellicoe.”

  Rosing’s wide, dark gaze swung back to Claire.

  “Tell me why you killed Maisy Carter,” she said again.

  “I didn’t, I swear. I didn’t. I didn’t mean to. She was alive.”

  Tanner leaned down close, looming over the stricken man. “But you did rape her, didn’t you? Her cross—the cross you strangled her with while you raped her—is right there in your valise, in your wardrobe.”

  “I swear, she was alive, when I left her,” the puning bastard croaked.

  “For that alone, you deserve to die.” The vehement whisper came from Claire’s lips. “So you can never do it again. Never shove another girl up against a brick wall.”

  Tanner stood and looked at her. “We both wished we had killed you when we had the chance. Well, now’s our chance.” He pulled that long, wicked blade from his boot, and nimbly reversed it in his hand, holding it out to her hilt first. “I’ll kill him now.”

  She looked at the knife for such a very long time, he could not tell if she understood that it was all only for show.

  He tried to shake his head so only she could see, even as he said, “I’ll do it right this time. I’ll just stand on his leg, and while he’s convulsing and writhing in pain the way he made you, and made all those girls—girl after girl—writhe in pain. Then I’ll slide my blade right through his ribs, and turn it until he’s bled dead and dry.”

  “Please,” Rosing begged.

  But the color came back to Claire’s cheeks—two high spots of ardent heat. She rallied. “I’ll do, Tanner. If you’d be so kind as to stomp on his leg again, I’ll—”

  “No. No, I swear I didn’t kill her,” Rosing gasped, tears of fright seeping from his eyes. “Please.”

  “Why did you rape her?” Tanner pressed. “Why didn’t you just leave Lady Claire’s room, and let her go?”

  He had asked himself this question over and over. And he had thought he knew the answer—that Rosing raped her because he could. Because he liked it.

  “She would have told Lady Claire.”

  The rage was a ravenous thing that was consuming him from the inside out. But he couldn’t let it. He had to think. He had to use his brain, and ask the next question.

  The question he hadn’t liked to ask himself.

  “Why did you go to Lady Claire’s room in the first place? Why didn’t you just wait for her at the ball, and do as you did then?” And steal her outside, and down the lawn. What was the urgency?

  “I was supposed to ruin her.”

  Ah. The tumblers in his brain aligned, and the bolt fell free. Rosing meant to rape Claire instead of Maisy Carter up there in that bed room.

  He was supposed to.

  Someone wanted him to. Someone with a heavy ring on his left hand, and an ancient Roman coin fob, and the cold blooded conscience of a snake had crushed Maisy Carter’s windpipe.

  Somebody with a reason to keep Maisy Carter from naming Rosing, so he could go on to ruin Lady Claire Jellicoe as he was supposed to. Someone who wanted an alliance with the house of Sanderson.

  “Hadleigh.” He looked at Claire. “Hadleigh killed her, and then took her body out, and dumped her into the river, just as you supposed.”

  Chapter 25

  There was only one place left to look for the evidence to support their answers.

  “I’m going to search Hadleigh’s chamber.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Before he could object, Claire shook her head, silently telling him she couldn’t be brought to stay with Rosing for any reason. So they had to find another solution.

  Tanner’s gaze went to the bottles on the table. “Laudanum? That’ll keep him quiet.”

  “Yes. It’s the merciful thing, as well,” Claire said.

  Tanner spooned the dose past Rosing’s crying mouth, and waited for the opiate to take effect.

  Once the man had slipped under the influence of the drug, Tanner took up the candle, and they slipped down the corridor to the opposite side of the house, to the room that would adjoin Lady Worthington’s sitting room.

  Light blazed from under her door, but the adjoining suite of rooms, facing the back of the house and the water, and which would most likely be Hadleigh’s, was dark.

  Tanner snuffed out the sconces as he went—re-lighted candles would be a clear indication of movement in the house—and paused for a long, careful moment outside the door, listening, making sure there was no sound of Hadleigh’s valet within.

  There was only the faint sound of movement below, the low droning summer sounds of insects in the night, and the occasional shuffling of paper from next door, as if Lady Worthington were amusing herself by reading a novel.

  Within the bedchamber it was dark and quiet. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn, and the bed turned back—all in preparation for Hadleigh’s return.

  Tanner wasted no time. They worked in silence—Claire went to one side of the room, while he went directly to the small dressing room.

  Hadleigh kept a larger portion of his clothing at Lady Worthington’s house than did his son—clearly he was very much at home there. There were many, different coats, and shirts, and cravats. And many different waistcoats.

  But Tanner thought, as he ran his hands across the fabric, he sensed a connection—old-fashioned, twilled silk fabrics, and fine metallic threads woven through.

  But no sign of a ripped waistcoat of white and gold metallic threads. Not unless—

  Tanner’s eyes fell to the small valise stored on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe. A valise such as a valet would pack, if he meant to take an article of clothing back—

  Tanner stopped projecting and simply looked.

  Ah. “Claire.”

  There would be no need to canvas London’s tailors now. At the bottom of the bag was the torn waistcoat, no doubt waiting for the valet to take back to London for repair.

  Hadleigh had been the one.

  Rosing must have told his father what he’d done, and Hadleigh had gone to the closet where his son had left Maisy Carter, concussed perhaps, or half-dead from the effects of the rape and semi-strangulation, and the broken nose.

  Hadleigh had gone there, and either taken the barely conscious girl somewhere else, or more likely strangled her there, on the spot, hidden from view in the closet.

  And then he moved her body, wrapped up in his mistress’s distinctive white cloak.

  A chill, like a cold breeze from an open window, coursed through him.

  It was—right from the beginning—a ploy to see a marriage made. To cement an alliance between the House of Hadleigh and the House of Sanderson—that was why Hadleigh and Rosing had come uninvited to the ball in the first place. Because Hadleigh had not been able to interest the Earl Sanderson in a previous alliance—in joining his counterfeiting scheme.

  Tanner could see it like a painting before him—Lord Peter Rosing had gone upstairs to Claire’s chamber
to find her before the ball had even started. He had meant to compromise her then and there, while the rest of them waited below in the drawing room.

  While Tanner propped up the wall.

  And Claire had foiled him by rushing downstairs before time. And Maisy had come back to the chamber and paid the consequences.

  Tanner could see it all now, the deadly sequence of events—the greedy error compounding upon greedy error.

  And there was more greed still—there was the puzzle of the counterfeit fob.

  He could hear his sister’s voice now—It always comes down to the money.

  Tanner needed more evidence. He needed those counterfeit coins. Or better yet those cylinders that had been cast to stamp the blanks.

  Would Hadleigh keep such a valuable, but incriminating possession with him?

  Tanner began systematically turning out the wardrobe, shelf after shelf. He rifled through the valise again, searching for a false bottom, running his hands around the edges of the wardrobe’s wooden frame, feeling and searching for a hidden catch.

  Nothing.

  But Claire was already ahead of him. “Tanner.”

  She was standing next to the writing table, upon which sat a large rectangular carrying case of burnished York tan leather. The kind of case important papers, or jewelry were carried in.

  A locked carrying case. Just waiting for him.

  “Can you open it?” she asked. And then asked instead, “Should we open it?”

  “Yes.” He wasted no time on explaining his moral failings, but moved the candle closer to the keyhole, fished his picks out of his pockets, and set to work.

  Hadleigh was a smart man, and had chosen a well-made case, with interior hardware—hinges and clasps on the inside where they couldn’t be pried apart with force. And there were two brass-plated key holes—Tanner would have to pick it twice.

  His encyclopedic mind was already sorting through the catalogue of locks in his mind, remembering successful approaches, reminding him of failures, warning him of possibilities like a sequential lock, where one side might have to be half set, and then the other follow before both sides would release. Or the need to have two keys, and the locks to be turned simultaneously.

  He set to it gingerly, feeling his way carefully with the pick, counting the tumblers, sorting out if they were equal to a side, before he attempted to rake the first set. And he was glad he had gone gently, when the first lock clicked to half-set.

  He repeated the pick on the left side, and then thumbed the latches to half-set. Then he raked them both again, until the tumblers fell with a satisfying click.

  “Ah.” He positioned his thumbs on opposite sides of the latches, and simultaneously pushed the brass buttons outward.

  The latches snapped open.

  Claire crowded close, and held the candle up so they could see into the interior as he lifted the lid.

  At first there didn’t appear to be anything within, but a neatly organized leather tray with some writing utensils—metal pens, an old penknife, and a bottle of ink.

  But beneath the tray was a false bottom with a small collection of flannel pouches. Tanner plunged his hand in, and felt through them, until he found the shapes he was searching for. He pulled open the drawstring, and spilled the objects into his palm.

  He felt Claire’s sharp intake of breath beside him. “Oh, my God.”

  And there they were—the cylinders. One for each side of the coin, brass and steel gleaming in the candlelight.

  “Should be take them with us, or the whole case?” Claire was looking at him with a clear mixture of excitement and relief chasing across her face.

  “No.” He had to leave all the evidence—the tokens and Maisy’s cross in Rosing’s wardrobe as well, because needed them found here.

  He needed them found by somebody else.

  By the law.

  “We’ll leave them for now—”

  He heard it then, the jangling sound of coach harness, followed by the tell-tale crunch and clatter of gravel, that meant Hadleigh was returning.

  Tanner felt his face curve into a nasty smile. Right on time.

  He snubbed out the candle with his fingers, and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dark.

  Next door, Lady Worthington stirred, and made her swishing silken way out of her room, and then paused at Rosing’s room—presumably to check for Claire—before she went to the stairs, to greet Hadleigh.

  As soon as she was past, Tanner set the cylinders back in their flannel pouches, replaced the leather writing tray, and flipped the latches shut. “Put it back exactly where you found it.”

  “Here. It was here, on the desk.” Claire positioned the case just so.

  Below, voices sounded from the entry hall. “Why isn’t there any light?” Hadleigh, sounding irritated, and even angry.

  “Hadleigh.” Lady Worthington’s voice from the stairwell, snide and soothing. “You’ll never guess who came to call.”

  “Who?”

  But outside, there was another sound—the jangling din of a second carriage running up Lady Worthington’s semi-circular drive. With any luck, it was the magistrate, come to call, just as Hadleigh had likely desired.

  The urge to run from the law was nearly as strong as the urge to confront Hadleigh. But Tanner disliked postponing justice. He disliked having to hold himself back, and wait for the slow legs of the law to catch up. His own brand of justice had always been more sure, and more swift.

  But he knew to free himself—to free him to marry Lady Claire Jellicoe—the Duke of Fenmore had to publicly and legally discredit the Marquess of Hadleigh, and expose his schemes before justice could follow.

  But Claire was feeling the urge to run as well.

  Especially when Hadleigh’s voice, incredulous and demanding, roared up from below. “Who? Where is she?”

  “Tanner!” Her voice was laced with panic.

  “Here.” Tanner drew Claire to the window, flipped over the latch, and shoved the silent, well-oiled sash up. “You’ll have to go out the window. The roof to the conservatory is right there, you can slide right down it. Stay low. Don’t try to get down to the ground until you hear that everyone is inside, and the coachmen have gone to the stable.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have other work that still needs must be done.”

  But not before he did the only thing that mattered—he cupped his hand around the back of her head and kissed her. One last time.

  Before he said, “I love you.”

  And shut the window in her face.

  It was a game. The same game he had played day in, and day out, as a child—plan what you want to happen. Play a role. Brazen it out, but make it real. Make it convincing.

  He would make it convincing. Because the alternative was all too real.

  The alternative was a noose.

  And so he ignored the throbbing of his pulse in his ears, and made his careful downstairs, sneaking his way down the servants’ stair, making his invisible way to Lady Worthington’s well-lit library, to sit, and take his ease—perhaps help himself to a drink—and wait calmly for the Marquess of Hadleigh, and his guests, to find him.

  It was a matter of some minutes before Hadleigh returned downstairs. “Forgive me. It seems Lady Worthington had an intruder. I’m her guest, of course, but I’ve checked the house, and assured her...”

  Tanner took a deep breath and let the jangling excitement, the keen sense of physical and mental readiness, fill him up.

  If ever there was a moment he had wished for the Duke of Fenmore’s sartorial precision, it was now. But needs must while the Devil drives.

  He would use the duke’s precise rapier-sharp words, instead.

  Outside the door, the voice gained in volume. “...why don’t we come in here—”

  Lady Worthington’s footman opened the door, and Hadleigh strode through first. And stopped in his tracks.

  “How do you do?” Tanner minded his manners, and doffe
d his wide-brimmed hat with an elegant bow. “I’m Fenmore. We’ve not met, but I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

  If looks alone could kill, Tanner would be bleeding his life’s blood into the plush carpet—Hadleigh’s eyes bored into him, and though the man did not move so much as an inch, the muscle along the edge of his jaw hardened, like steel annealing.

  Behind the marquess, Tanner recognized the face of the local magistrate, Lord Bartholomew Bennet, an old card-playing crony of his grandmother’s.

  A shiver of sly relief slid through him. Hadleigh had chosen badly—he had chosen an honest man.

  Tanner could only hope the two men with Lord Bennet—either lesser magistrates of some kind, or constables—were just as honest.

  Unlike Lord Bennett, Hadleigh was not an honest man. The Marquess of Hadleigh was as powerful and controlling and evil as his son was criminally rapine. They were quite a pair—the House of Hadleigh’s bad blood ran deep.

  Though the marquess was a man Tanner had never had occasion to cross, he was someone Tanner instinctively, and very logically distrusted. He was known to be political, and politically dirty. He shifted his allegiances as often as the weather, depending upon who was in power, and who’s allegiance he could buy, beg or steal.

  He was a man whose skills Tanner might have been tempted to admire, but for the fact that he was known to have no loyalty. No sense of morals. No sense of what was right.

  Hadleigh was a murderer.

  So Tanner kept his eyes on the marquess, who crossed to the desk, and took up his position of power, though he also looked as if he would like to stab Tanner with the gleaming pen knife so conveniently left upon its surface.

  Tanner would have to mind himself, lest he find himself stuck in the ribs—murder could become a habit just as easily as rape.

  But the marquess was no fool, and would make the best of this situation. “There he is,” Hadleigh crowed. “There’s the man who is wanted on a charge of murder. Arrest him.”

  To which accusation Tanner smiled.

  “Good evening my Lord Bennet.” Tanner made a bow in the man’s direction. “Which is why I have come. To prove my innocence, so you may dismiss the charge. Which”—he smiled in Lord Bennet’s direction— “I should very much like to do at your earliest convenience, my lord. You see, I’m getting married.”