The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

“He is as dead as poor Melisande, who suffered at your cruel hands.”

  “No!” Phyllis screamed. “No! Melisande was murdered by a footpad!”

  “There are no footpads on the estate, Phyllis,” Michael said, and both Emme and Rhys wondered at what it cost him to gentle his voice when he spoke. “There have never been footpads on this estate. Eleanor killed Melisande to protect Alistair, to hide his crime, to hide the horror of what he had done to his own cousin, perhaps his own sister.”

  Eleanor stood. “You can’t prove it. I loved my son, but it is obvious that he had gone mad.”

  Spencer still had the satchel over his shoulder. He reached in and pulled out the dress.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Phyllis fainted and Larissa gingerly patted her cheeks as she removed a vinaigrette from her pocket. Eleanor glared at him, cold disdain marring her features.

  “You are all so clever. Yes, I killed her. But it wasn’t simply to protect Alistair. The stain of what he had done would have damaged the entire family. We would never have been able to show our faces in society again. I couldn’t let that happen. Better to be at the center of a tragedy than a scandal!”

  “And Elise?” Rhys asked. “What was your motive for killing her?”

  Eleanor’s face twisted with fury as she explained. “Alistair, in a fit of drunkenness, had confessed to her. He’d gloated about what he had done. Elise, amoral as she was, didn’t care in the least, but she made a vital error when she attempted to blackmail me with the information. She would have spread the gossip far and wide. I chose the lesser of two evils. I knew that at least some people would believe she was a suicide. Oh, there would be whispers, but it was better than the alternative,” she finished.

  Her head was high, her back perfectly straight. She spoke of murder as calmly as she might have discussed a garden party.

  “What are your plans for me?”

  Rhys couldn’t bring himself to see her dead, either at his own hands or at the hands of the hangman. “You will go to an insane asylum. You will be cared for, against my better judgment. I cannot bring myself to kill you and I doubt the magistrate could either. A mental break brought about by the tragedy of your only son’s death will be far less scandalous than a trial for murder, will it not?”

  She smiled at him then, a cold mockery of amusement. “I’ve taught you well.”

  “Lock her in the tower room until we can sort things out,” Rhys instructed.

  Spencer took her.

  Michael watched her pass with cold fury. “It is better than she deserves.”

  “I know,” Rhys said simply.

  Michael turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Phyllis was regaining consciousness.

  She moaned and then began to weep softly. “My poor Melisande. How could she? How could she have taken my little girl?”

  Larissa comforted her. Emme rose from the bed and went to her as well. Together they helped Phyllis back to her room. Larissa stayed with her, comforting the woman as she grieved for the loss of her child and the loss of the woman who had been her friend and companion for decades.

  Emme couldn’t shake the overwhelming sadness that filled her as she returned to their chamber and to her husband. So many lives destroyed, so many lives taken, all for the sake of preserving appearances.

  She entered their chamber and returned to the bed, where she placed her head on her husband’s uninjured shoulder. His injury might be mild, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think him safe just yet. She would wait to see if fever set in.

  “How is she?” he asked softly.

  “She is heartbroken, grieving for her child and for her friend. But she is stronger than she realizes, and she will recover. And so will you.”

  He pulled her closer. “I have everything to live for. Of course, I will recover.”

  “You are a blessed man in spite of these last days,” she whispered, her voice teasing.

  They needed a moment of levity in the whirlwind of violence that had nearly consumed them.

  He smiled down at the top of her head, his gaze tender. When she looked up and met his gaze, he stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

  “I am a blessed man, indeed. I am blessed with a wife whom I adore, with a wife that I love.”

  Her heart stuttered in her chest, skipping alarmingly. “You love me?”

  He pulled her up, and claimed her lips in a searing kiss. “Yes,” he said, the word feathering over her lips, “I love you. And today, I nearly lost you. I couldn’t bear it if something were to happen to you. You are my life now.”

  She kissed him then, pressing against him fervently, her spirit soaring. “I feel the same. I’ve wanted to tell you, but I am such a coward. I love you!”

  He clasped her more tightly. “Say it again.”

  “I love you, Rhys. With every breath in my body, I love you. You are everything to me.”

  He kissed her, tenderly, attempting to show her the depth of his love. He caressed each bruise and scrape, damning himself all over again for failing to protect her.

  “I didn’t believe love was possible until I found you.”

  Rhys awoke to darkness. Disoriented from the laudanum Michael insisted he take earlier, he reached for Emme. The empty bed beside him brought him to abrupt awareness. A scream echoed through the halls.

  He rose quickly, ignoring the leaden feeling in his limbs and the dryness of his mouth from the drug. He donned his dressing gown quickly and stepped out into the hallway.

  Michael was just emerging from his own door further down the corridor. The scream came again, sharp and piercing. At the end of the long hallway, he noted that the tower room door was open. With a heartfelt curse, he ran towards the narrow stairs with Michael following close behind.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he could see his breath. The room was frigid cold. Eleanor cowered in the corner, her hair wild and tears streaking her face. Emme stood only a few feet from her, but he knew that she was not truly Emme in that moment. Elise had come for her revenge. Michael would have pushed past him but Rhys raised a warning hand. He couldn’t risk any harm to Emme. Elise, even in death, was vicious enough to harm her out of spite.

  “Make her stop! She’s the devil!” Eleanor screamed.

  She tore at her hair as she shook her head from side to side.

  “There is only one devil here and it is you.” The voice was chilling. It was Elise in full fury.

  “You murdered a child. I’ve done many things, but never that! You lied for and protected your son who was nothing but a vile rapist, a violent, misanthropic drunkard!”

  “Don’t! Don’t say those things about him, you vicious whore!”

  Elise smiled through Emme’s eyes and the effect chilled him straight through. “Your son was a wastrel, a whoremonger, and a murderer but then with you for a mother, how could he be anything else? You don’t really believe that Jeremy fell from his horse, do you? It was part of Alistair’s plan. I was going to be the Duchess but Rhys was never to be the Duke! No, he would die on the battlefield, reckless as always and Alistair and I would wed. But Rhys proved lucky as usual and once again Alistair was a resounding failure!

  “Then he drank himself into a stupor and told everything. He told me about your affair and Melisande’s murder! And now his corpse is rotting in the dirt with a pistol ball buried in his brain. I would say it was a waste, but we all know he didn’t deserve to live after everything he’s done and neither do you.”

  “Shut up!” Eleanor screeched. “Stop talking about him! Go back to hell!”

  “Not without you,” Elise whispered.

  Eleanor lurched to her feet and charged toward Emme, her fingers curled into talon- like claws. Rhys reacted without thought, he simply grabbed Emme and hauled her back.

  Eleanor’s momentum carried her forward and at the top of the stairs, she struggled to regain her balance. Her feet tangled in her skirts and she stumbled but caught her
self on the door frame. A gust of frigid air burst through the room though all of the windows were still locked tight. Eleanor released the door frame and covered her face with her hands, as if warding off an attack. She screamed and tried to step back, only to stumble again and this time there was no correcting her misstep. She tumbled through the open door of the stairwell with a loud shriek but her scream ended abruptly.

  Rhys, with Emme in his arms, forced himself to look. She lay at the bottom of the stairs, her neck bent at an unnatural angle. Michael cursed but Rhys could only stare at the broken body. Emme had gone limp in his arms soon after he’d grabbed her. He had no idea how long she would remain unconscious.

  “Not a word of this to her,” he said. “I don’t want her to know that she was any part of it.”

  “She wasn’t,” Michael said. “That was not Emme.”

  Rhys knew that, just as he knew that Elise was well and truly gone. The air in the room had changed. The heaviness and the oppressiveness of it had simply dissipated. Elise’ presence had hung thickly in the air of that small room even before he’d been able to accept that the dead did indeed linger. He thought about Melisande’s comment, that he could only see her because he believed. Elise had cultivated Eleanor’s belief; she had used Emme’s body to communicate with the woman and had planted the seeds of doubt and fear. But she hadn’t needed Emme to carry out her revenge fully. Eleanor’s belief had been strong enough that Elise had only to use it against her.

  Michael carried Emme back to the ducal chamber, as Rhys’ wound would not allow him to so, and deposited her on the bed. He ordered Rhys to bed as well.

  “You’ve been shot, you ass. When people have bullets rip through them, they generally rest.”

  Rhys didn’t argue, but he didn’t obey either. He simply tucked Emme into the bed and then followed Michael from the room to see to the removal of the body. Servants had risen and come to see what the commotion was. Thankfully, Phyllis slept on as did Larissa.

  In the hallway, Michael met a bleary-eyed Spencer coming down the corridor. “Come along. We’ve another corpse to attend to.”

  Spencer glared. “So that’s what all the commotion is about? Did you kill the bitch?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, Elise did.”

  Rhys noted the questions in Spencer’s eyes. But with a shake of his head, indicated that they could not and would not be answered.

  They didn’t call the magistrate, deciding to treat the whole thing as a tragic accident. There was little enough to be done except remove the body. After giving the servants their direction, Rhys nodded to Michael and returned to his bedchamber and his wife. He felt that they were free again. Elise was gone. Both of the individuals responsible for Melisande’s death were facing their eternal judgment and at last they were free to move forward, to leave the ugliness of the past firmly behind.

  Once the task was complete and Eleanor was laid out on her bed, Michael began to carefully comb through her belongings.

  Spencer glared at him. “What are you doing?”

  Michael glanced over his shoulder, “Making sure that she hasn’t written something down that will make life more complicated for our friend. In case you haven’t noticed, his wife is complication enough for any man.”

  Spencer was quiet for a moment then dutifully began to search with him. They collected Eleanor’s journals, as well as packets of letters she’d kept from her liaison with the duke. They threw it all into the fire and watched it burn.

  Chapter 16

  The invitations had descended upon them with ferocity. Rather than attending a ball or other entertainment on their first evening out, Rhys had elected to attend the theater. Edmond Keen was performing Hamlet, and it was sure to be well attended. Rhys had gone downstairs to have a brandy while Emme endured her toilette at Gussy’s hands.

  Her hair had been dressed very elaborately, piled atop her head and fastened with so many pins that Emme didn’t think she would ever be able to remove them all. Delicate curls framed her face and brushed against her neck. The modiste had sent over a dress of deep, peacock blue satin. The décolletage was more daring than anything that Emme had ever worn, and was embroidered with silver scroll work. The tiny puffed sleeves left her shoulders almost completely bare, and her stays were laced so tightly her already generous bosom threatened to spill over top of the deep, square neckline. A silver satin sash was fitted just beneath her breasts and diamonds that Rhys had presented her earlier winked at her ears.

  When Emme joined Rhys in the drawing room, in spite of her misgivings about the gown, she was thrilled by his response. His dark eyes went hot when he looked at her. They raked her from head to toe and she felt the weight of that smoldering gaze.

  “Had I known,” he said, “That Mademoiselle Beauchamps intended to display your charms so generously, we might have gone elsewhere.”

  “You don’t care for my gown?” she asked, accepting the glass of sherry he had poured for her.

  He liked the gown well enough, and so would every other man present. The idea of other men ogling her, and of her being displayed so lushly for their perusal did not sit well with him.

  “On the contrary, I admire it greatly. However, I fear that it may inspire me to take up my dueling pistols again when others do so.”

  “And if yours is the only admiration of consequence to me?”

  He kissed her. It was a slow kiss, a seduction of the senses as he teased and nipped at her lips, never deepening the kiss. She could taste the brandy on his lips, but thought he was infinitely more intoxicating than the liquor.

  “If we continue this,” he said, murmuring against her lips, “We won’t be making it to the theater.”

  “Then by all means,” she said, “Continue.”

  He chuckled, “You’ll not get out of it that easy. We have to face them sometime.”

  He was right. She couldn’t hide forever.

  “Then let us go before my courage fails me entirely.”

  Smiling down at her, he replied, “I didn’t think your courage ever failed. You are remarkable.”

  She blushed at such high praise. It was so far beyond what she was accustomed to. Since her mother’s marriage five years earlier, she’d become more accustomed to criticism and ridicule. She disentangled herself from his embrace. It unnerved her that he could have such an effect on her, but more specifically, that she might become dependent on his positive regard. She didn’t want to need him or his approval.

  Rhys felt her withdraw and knew that it was more than physical. It piqued his curiosity, but he chose not to press her. If there was one thing that he was learning about his new wife, it was that she was all but incapable of hiding her feelings. He would learn in due time what had prompted her to distance herself from him. In the interim, they had reputations to protect and a murderer to find.

  “We should go,” he said, “As it is, we’ll be late enough to make a grand entrance without having to talk to anyone, but not so late that our entrance will be missed entirely.”

  “You have the art of it perfected, I see,” she said.

  “I learned it from Ellersleigh, the master. He will be joining us at the theater, by the way. Assuming he hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor somewhere, that is.”

  “Or become distracted by an available female?”

  Rhys didn’t point it out, but for Michael, there were few females who weren’t available. “Just so,” he said, and ushered her outside and into the waiting carriage. He handed her up and then joined her inside the carriage.

  “I’ve accepted an invitation to the Somerfield Ball, which is tomorrow night. It is a prestigious event, and our attendance should please Lady Eleanor, if pleasing her is possible. By the end of the week, I hope to be headed back to Briarwood Hall.”

  Emme couldn’t see his expression in the dark interior of the cottage. “Why so anxious? Not that I mind, of course, I’d much rather be at Briarwood Hall. I had thought you wished to stay in London for some t
ime.”

  Rhys paused before answering. His reasons were twofold. The first of which was that he wanted to be back at home where he could get to know his wife and enjoy her company with fewer prying eyes, the second had to do with finding the culprit. There had been no further accidents since coming to London, not that he wanted more accidents to occur. Still, it felt wrong, somehow. It was as if they’d been diverted from their true course.

  “I’ve been shortsighted. Reading Elise’s journal is difficult, but it must be done. If you are correct, and one of Elise’s lovers murdered her and Melisande, then our focus should be on finding the fiend, and not placating my aunt’s unreasonable desire for social standing.”

  Emme was relieved. “I am not much for society, Rhys. I’d be perfectly content to remain in the country all of the time.”

  “I can’t guarantee that we will never come to London, but the trips will be as infrequent as possible.”

  “Would you come without me?” she asked.

  “If needs must,” he said, “But I would prefer to have you with me.”

  The question burned on the tip of her tongue. Unable to stop herself, she said, “We’ve never discussed it, but I’m aware that maintaining a mistress is common practice—”

  “It is common practice, but it is not one I intend to indulge. I desire no other woman. I have, in fact, never desired a woman with the intensity with which I crave you. I fear that you have become an obsession.”

  The words thrilled her, but her fear would not be so easily dismissed. “And when you’ve grown used to me? When I’m heavy with child?”

  The very idea of her heavy with his child spoke to a part of him that was so primal he couldn’t name it. Rather than answer her, he pulled her to him and kissed her. It was not a gentle kiss, or even a passionate one. It was a claiming. He took her lips with the intensity that burned within him and branded her. In that kiss, he showed her, absolutely, that she was his.

  When the kiss broke, he leaned his forehead against hers, and breathlessly, he said, “I cannot promise that I will always be an easy man to live with, or even to tolerate, but I can promise you that I have made a vow to you before God, and I will keep that vow. What happens when you tire of me, when my kisses no longer stir your blood, will you be as faithful?”