by Diana Lloyd
Elvy dropped to her knees in the driver’s box as the men’s scuffle sent them over the side and down into the road. Eldridge was young and spry, but Oliver had years of righteous anger behind his fists and a knife tucked into his boot. The intense brutality of men bloodying each other was raw and shocking. Knuckles meeting soft flesh was a dull sound distinctly different from that of the crack of bone against bone.
“They’re going to kill each other.”
Oliver let his fists do his talking as Eldridge spat out a stream of taunts and insults. When the harassment grew more profane and vile, Jewel reached out for Elvy’s hand.
“We have to stop them.”
“He’ll never forgive you if you do.”
“He’s hurt and bleeding.” Oliver had been through so much in his life. Her uncle forcing him into this was unforgiveable. If she had to spend every penny of her money ruining her uncle for what he’d done to Oliver, she would do it.
“His lordship is just toying with him now, waiting for him to fall down.” Sure enough, the next time Eldridge dropped to his knees, he didn’t get back up. Jewel sighed in relief as Oliver offered his hand to help Eldridge to his feet. Wobbling a little, Eldridge stood, shook his head, and raised his hands in surrender.
Breathing hard, the two men leaned against the side of the wagon, each catching their breath and taking stock of their injuries. Oliver’s eye was already beginning to swell shut, and Eldridge’s jaw puffed up like a pillow.
“Why,” Eldridge said at last, sucking in air to complete his thought, “are you dressed like that? Like a man? Does he,” he continued, nodding his head toward Oliver, “make you dress that way?”
“Shut up, Eldridge, or I’ll hit you myself.” Jewel climbed down from the wagon and went to Oliver’s side. “I don’t know what my uncle told you but it’s wrong. Lord Winchcombe is a good, kind, and honest man. He’s the man I love. You’re the one who’s been fooled. My uncle tricked you into doing his dirty work and attacking a peer. You’re the one going to Newgate.”
“What?” Shaking his head and straightening his shoulders, Eldridge’s protest sounded uncertain. “He attacked you in the ballroom, he’s a mesmerist—he’s convinced you that you’re in love.”
“He sure has.” Oliver held out his arm and she leaned in to him as he folded her into a fierce hug. Everything was going to work out. Her uncle had gone too far, and this would be his undoing. She didn’t need to live in Boston to help her father. Oliver had proven that the world could run on correspondence. Home was wherever Oliver happened to be.
“You’ve said quite enough, young man,” Oliver said as he wiped the blood from his face with his handkerchief. “I suggest you shut up and listen for a while. Unless, of course, you want me to summon the law to sort this out.”
“I think not.” Eldridge shook his head and looked down at the dirt.
“Where is Dunwoody?”
“His wife and daughters left Town. Lord Dunwoody took off on his horse to find a witness to your…peculiarities. He said he’d be back in time for the hearing.”
“I see.” Oliver kissed the top of her head before reaching out his other hand for Elvy. Pulling them both into a warm embrace, he said, “You two are the best friends a man could have. Thank you for being nosy and reckless and coming after me. I asked Penry to keep an eye on you. How did you sneak away?”
“When you didn’t return to Clifford Street straightaway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. Penry came with us to Hanover Square to have a look. When we discovered you weren’t there, he went on to Bartleby’s to check there and left us to keep watch in case you turned up. We’re supposed to meet him back at the square.” As she spoke, Jewel noticed Eldridge inching away.
“Stop right there!” Quick as a flash, Elvy spun around with her knife in her hand and threatened him. “You ain’t going nowhere, you sod-for-brains jackanapes. Haul yourself back over here.”
“Yes, madam.” Eldridge stepped back into place.
“Elvy, if you would bring my carriage around, we’ll all be riding back into Town to gather up my brother and my horse,” said Oliver, sounding surprisingly chipper for a man with a blackened eye and bloodied knuckles. “It’s late.” Then, looking to Eldridge, he said, “And I have a loose end to tie up.”
Back at Clifford Street, Jewel melted into a cushioned chair in exhaustion. Elvy had fallen asleep on the settee, but Jewel refused to let her eyes close until she was convinced all was well. Oliver, Penry, Bartleby, and Eldridge sat in a tight circle, hashing out strategies, punishments, and plans. It was quickly decided that Eldridge should not be allowed to leave, lest he run to Dunwoody with the news that Oliver had survived.
“I keep telling you, he didn’t want me to kill you, and I wouldn’t even if he did. I’m no murderer. I was supposed to hit you over the head, take your clothes, and dump you in a hayfield as far from Town as I could get.”
“Because that’s so much better,” Penry chimed in.
“He said you were the devil. I had to protect Julianna from the devil.” Eldridge’s voice was pleading.
“Miss Latham,” Oliver corrected him. “She is under my protection now. I can prove Dunwoody dabbled in treason, so you need to think very hard about following his lead.” Oliver might have awoken tomorrow morning naked and alone, sought help from the nearest crofter, and been stabbed with a pitchfork because of his face. Dunwoody wanted him dead. He just didn’t want to sully his own hands doing it.
“Honestly,” Penry said, “My brother is often a pain in the arse, but he’s not the devil.”
“I concur,” Bartleby added.
“I’ll tell you about Lord Dunwoody,” Eldridge said, looking from man to man around the circle. “My father has known him since they were schoolboys. I’ve read his letters to my father and overheard things. He has a plan. He’s claimed a gouty foot and called in a favor; the hearing has been moved from the committee chambers to his house this very afternoon. He’s doing everything he can to make sure your supporters won’t make it in time to testify.”
Jewel’s eyelids surrendered to sleep against her best efforts. Her uncle would not play fair. He’d already stacked the deck against Oliver. If only she could think of something to do to help him. Jolted awake when Oliver lifted her from the chair to carry her to bed, she had only the energy to put her arms around his neck and smile reassuringly. Today was the day they’d planned for, worried over, and dreaded for what seemed like ages.
All would be well, it had to be.
Walking to her uncle’s house for the hearing, bad memories and trembling nerves stole Jewel’s voice, and she gripped Oliver’s arm more tightly. Reminding herself to breathe, she concentrated on the number of steps to the room where they would learn Oliver’s fate.
While—by borrowing clothes from Penry and the Bartlebys and with Elvy’s help—she and Oliver were both dressed in the height of good taste and fashion, Oliver’s blackened eye and split lip were all that anyone would see. Lord Sibley and Mr. Merrick sat behind her uncle’s desk at the end of the room, with rows of chairs for witnesses facing them. Oliver’s seat, as the accused, was immediately to their left. Oliver gave her hand a final squeeze as Penry took up her elbow and guided her to a front-row seat, placing her between him and Elvy, who immediately grabbed her hand.
Surely hell is nothing more than a crowded room where everyone spends eternity waiting for something to happen, she thought. Relieved her aunt and cousins were far away, Jewel was surprised to recognize a few of her uncle’s household servants taking seats on the other side of the room. Of course, they’d been at the ball and would testify to…what? That she and Oliver had run across the dance floor? Hardly scandalous. No, she realized, they would speak of what happened in the library, even though not one of them had been there.
When her favorite footman, Thomas, walked in, she
started to worry anew. The opposite side of the room was filling with witnesses while only Penry, Elvy, and herself championed Oliver. The notion of failure—after all this time, after all they’d endured to get here, settled on her like a dark cloud heralding a coming storm.
When at last her uncle took his place, Lord Sibley knocked on the tabletop three times to bring the crowd to order as he started the proceedings.
Chapter Eighteen
There was nothing worse than thinking you held the winning hand only to get trumped in the end. Determined to look confident, despite his inner turmoil, Oliver stared straight ahead and awaited his fate. Muffled voices, footsteps, and the sound of chairs scraping across the flooring challenged his resolve. One more look at Jewel might break them both. He had to remain strong.
Mr. Merrick, Lord Sibley’s secretary, stood at last, cleared his throat, and read the complaint. Oliver knew the accusations, but hearing them so coldly and plainly laid out in a room of his peers cut him deep. Lunacy, witchcraft, and consorting with the devil. The crowd grew silent, their shocked faces and judgmental gazes branding his skin. Resisting the urge to squirm, he held his head high and let his eyes turn from Dunwoody to the Scottish Maiden and back again.
Witnesses in Dunwoody’s defense were called forward, resulting in more scraping chairs and murmurs. When Sibley raised an eyebrow in surprise, Oliver’s resolve finally broke, and he dared to look into Jewel’s eyes. She was scared but greeted him with a nervous smile. Though weighed down with disappointment that none of the men he regularly corresponded with had shown up in his defense, he tried to smile back.
The number of people in the room had doubled—no, tripled—since he’d first arrived. Another five people pushed their way into the rapidly filling room as he watched. His downfall was as popular as a public hanging.
“Am I to understand,” Lord Sibley said as he stood and addressed Jewel, Penry, and Elvy, “that the three of you mean to speak as witnesses in this man’s defense?”
“Yes,” Penry answered for the three of them as Jewel and Elvy nodded.
“Those here on behalf of Lord Dunwoody’s claims, please stand.” Face impassive, Lord Sibley counted out the witnesses. “Madam,” he said, pointing to a dark figure in the back of the room. “What is your statement?”
“That man,” Winnifred Bunratty said, pointing to Oliver, “held up a traveling coach. He gave me the evil eye, he did. I’ve been troubled by a sour stomach ever since, food turns to ash in my mouth.”
“Are you certain, madam, that this man was the highwayman?” Sibley asked.
“No one else with a face like that. I’ll never forget it. He grabbed a young woman right from my arms and took her away.” Bunratty’s voice rose as she continued her accusations. “That wicked face comes to me in nightmares. He’s cursed me, I’m sure of it.”
“Am I to understand he stole a person? Anything else?” Lord Sibley’s face finally betrayed his dubious suspicion.
“That trollop right there.” Bunratty locked eyes with Jewel and screeched out, “He stole her from my care.” Upon hearing this, Lord Sibley turned his attention to Jewel, one side of his mouth quirking up in recognition.
“Lord Winchcombe, is there truth to this assertion? Did you chase down a traveling coach and relieve it of this young lady?”
“Yes, I did.” Oliver spoke casually, as if it had been an everyday occurrence.
“This committee has no quarrel with nor jurisdiction over this young woman. She appears unharmed to me. Is it possible, madam, that she wished to leave the coach and abandon her journey?”
“He cursed her, too, for all I know. The girl has cheese for brains, if you ask me.” Bunratty, pointing a bony finger at him, shouted out her last accusation. “Put a hood over his head—he’ll curse all of us with the evil eye.”
“Thank you, madam, your statement will be considered.” Sibley looked down to his secretary, Mr. Merrick, who was still furiously scribbling down her testimony. As soon as Merrick’s quill stopped moving, Sibley rapped his fist against the table once again. “Madam, you are free to leave.” Reluctantly and with much bluster, Bunratty quit the room, although her voice could still be heard from the hallway.
“If someone would close the doors, please.” Sibley waited until both doors were shut to call his next witness. “You, miss.” He nodded to Jewel. “Forgive my rudeness, although I know we’ve met, I do not recall your name.”
“Julianna Latham,” Jewel replied, voice shaking. “I am betrothed to Lord Winchcombe.” While her statement warmed his heart, Oliver knew her loyalty would have little bearing on the matter at hand. Not only was she female, she was born in the colonies—they would dismiss her statement as hysterical and irrelevant.
“Ah, yes, I recall.” Pursing his lips, Lord Sibley drew in a deep breath. “Were you, in fact, stolen from a traveling coach?”
“Not stolen, rescued,” Jewel replied. “Lord Dunwoody was sending me to Scotland against my wishes.”
“This young woman is my wife’s niece, and I am her guardian.” Jewel’s uncle jumped up from his seat and pointed his finger at her. “Her father has been arrested for sedition back in the colonies. I’ve tried my best with her, but blood will out, and she’s just as treacherous as her father.” Dunwoody was prepared to fight after all. Oliver had half hoped his mere presence today would be enough to put the treasonous old goat on the defensive, but the man was too convinced of his own cleverness to admit defeat.
“Once again, this young woman is not the subject of the hearing. Perhaps we could hear from another one of your witnesses, Lord Dunwoody.” Lord Sibley sat back down and raised an eyebrow at Jewel’s uncle.
“As master of the house, I will speak for my servants who have come to me with their concerns. My footman, Thomas, witnessed Winchcombe and his brother speaking in a strange language in my house. I believe it was witchcraft, Lord Sibley. Shortly thereafter, my maid Sally saw Winchcombe with my ward, racing across the ballroom in a wild and feverish manner. Winchcombe attacked my ward in my own library after causing my daughter to fall to the floor in a state of apoplexy, which was witnessed by my good wife.” Oliver shook his head at Dunwoody’s recollection of the evening. Now every move Oliver made, every word he’d ever spoken, would be turned on its side and examined for signs of lunacy or devilry.
“Have you any reply to these allegations, Winchcombe?” Sibley asked. Giving Mr. Merrick a moment to finish writing it down, Oliver considered how best to answer the question.
“I, along with my brother, attended a masked ball at this residence in April. While in the card room, a footman delivered a note asking that I meet the author in the garden for a private conversation. The conversation led me to believe that my brother, Penry, might be in some peril. The note’s author, Miss Latham, and I began an urgent search for my brother that led us through the ballroom and concluded in the library.” He would stick to the facts, remain emotionless and calm, and maybe, just maybe, he’d convince the right people that he wasn’t a madman.
“Have you any other witnesses, Lord Dunwoody?” Sibley leaned back in his chair, glancing over to Merrick’s notes.
“Yes, Lord Sibley,” Dunwoody replied, walking to the closed doors. “He lives in such fear of Winchcombe, he’s refused to occupy the same room for any longer than is absolutely necessary. Mr. Hatch begs your indulgence in letting me recite his testimony for him.”
“You mean to say he’s hiding behind the door?” Sibley asked.
“I could not convince him to enter. The man was brutally attacked by Winchcombe while enjoying a harmless night of gaming in Cheltenham.”
“Have you anything to say to this, Winchcombe?” What could he say? Everyone could see his blackened eye and split lip. They’d already decided he was a man prone to violence. He’d thought Hatch too frightened to ever willingly cross his path again. The man played a dangerous game by ag
reeing to testify in defense of the man whose name he’d revealed as the mastermind.
“If I am to be accused, let it not be anonymously or whispered from behind a door. I am eager to hear what Mr. Hatch has to say.” That Dunwoody had found the man was surprising, but after what Hatch had revealed about Dunwoody, it was doubtful there was anyone on the other side of the door. Of course, it didn’t really matter. Mr. Merrick had faithfully written into the record the words brutal and attack—it might be all Lord Sibley needed to hear.
“I’ll see if he’ll speak.” Dunwoody made a show of opening the door a few inches, shoving his face into the hallway, and having a conversation with the unseen Mr. Hatch. A few seconds later, he walked in with a man whose entire face was swaddled with bandages save for his eyes. “Mr. Hatch suffered a broken jaw as a result of Winchcombe’s beating and is under doctor’s orders to refrain from speaking.”
“Has he sworn a written statement?” Lord Sibley leaned over the table to get a better look at the nearly mummified Mr. Hatch.
“Mr. Hatch does not write but has put his mark on a statement that I graciously wrote for him.” Dunwoody produced the paper from his pocket and walked it over to the table.
Mr. Hatch, or whoever was behind all the wrapping, was doing a good job of looking scared out of his wits. Oliver wasn’t proud of the fierce beating he’d given the man. It was a night that would haunt him for a long time. Whatever the man swore to was probably true.
“If he cannot speak and he cannot write, how is it that he was able to give you a statement, Dunwoody?” Sibley frowned as he looked down at the paper in his hand.
“Gestures, Lord Sibley.” Dunwoody smiled nervously. “The poor man had to act out his own brutal attack.”
“How…unusual.” Tapping the paper with his finger a few times, Lord Sibley slid it over to Mr. Merrick to enter into the records. “Anyone else?”