by D. L. Carter
“Where your unmarried, beautiful, and wealthy sister is concerned, I think not,” said Millicent, laying her hand lightly on his arm. “I do not wish to encourage you in fearful thoughts yet I cannot help being worried myself. Attelweir is scum. I would not put any crime past him.”
“And he has your grandmother’s approval, publicly stated,” continued Simpson.
Shoffer and Millicent exchanged a glance.
“The dowager…” Shoffer paused. “You are correct, North. Beth would cause Attelweir endless trouble were he to try and take her out of London, but if he were to redirect my carriage to the dowager’s residence, she might go. My servants would not protest the command.”
“Would the dowager protect Beth from Attelweir or would she conspire with him against Beth’s wishes?” Millicent shuddered as the thought chilled her.
“Simpson. Go to Lady Edith’s residence. Find out if Beth is there. Whatever the news, send a message to me. I am going to call on my grandmother.” Shoffer turned and charged down the stairs again. “North, with me!”
Chapter Twenty
The carriage ride to the dowager’s residence was spent in complete silence. Since Simpson was no longer with them, Millicent risked reaching across the wide seat to grasp Shoffer’s hand. He returned the grip with such ferociousness that she knew he was in the clutch of, if not terror, then at least strong fear for his sister’s safety.
When they arrived, Shoffer did not wait for the footmen to open the door and lower the steps, but leapt from the carriage to the ground and raced up the staircase. Millicent, descending slowly, took a moment to glance about.
“Shoffer, your carriage,” cried Millicent, pointing. “It is heading down the street!”
Shoffer glanced toward her and away. He did not knock on the door so much as pound it open.
“Thomas, with me,” cried Millicent and ran down the road after the ducal carriage. Fortunately, since the North family and the Shoffers kept their equipages in the same mews, the coachman recognized Millicent’s footman and obeyed her shouts to stop.
“Come about, my good man,” gasped Millicent. “Go back to the dowager’s residence and wait. We may have need of you soon.”
The coachman sighed and muttered something about horses and the whimsies of the fancy, but nodded his understanding.
“Thomas,” said Millicent, grasping her footman’s arm. “You and the others stand ready. We may be leaving at speed.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that Millicent turned and ran back toward the house.
* * *
Inside Shoffer ran down the main hall, up the staircase, and down a corridor toward his grandmother’s favorite sitting room. Winter, summer, made no difference, the dowager received visitors in a room she had decorated in the image of the Queen’s drawing room. He was halfway down the corridor when he heard Beth’s voice raised in anger.
“You may say what you will, Attelweir, I shall not consent!”
“Fetch a special license, Attelweir,” came Lady Philomena’s voice. “We shall have her safely wed before morning.”
Shoffer hit the door like a cannon ball and was in the midst of them. In an instant, he assessed how things stood. Lady Philomena was seated, regal and judgmental, in her throne-like chair. Attelweir was near the door holding his nose, which had been struck when Shoffer burst in, and Beth, brave and darling Beth, with Lady Edith at her side held the center of the room, holding Attelweir at bay with her pistol. She took one look at Shoffer and started to cry.
“Oh, Timothy, I am so glad you are here. I have only one bullet.”
“My dear, in the right circumstances, one is just enough.” To the dowager, Shoffer showed his teeth. “I shall be taking my sister home, now, Your Gracelessness, and if I ever see you again, ever, in any circumstances, I shall shoot you myself.”
“I am leaving now,” said Beth, relaxing from her shooter’s stance and rushing toward her brother.
As she passed Attelweir, he leapt, seizing first the gun, then the girl.
“I think not,” said Attelweir, pulling Beth tight against his side. “Carrying a gun? Pointing a gun at me? I shall teach you better manners once we are wed.”
“I shall never marry you,” cried Beth, struggling within his grip, “and you should pray I do not, since if you do force me to marry, one dark night when you least expect it, I shall cut your throat.”
“Well done,” cried Shoffer, as Attelweir paled and looked suitably horrified at the threat.
At that moment, North rocketed into the room, hitting Attelweir at waist height and sending him bouncing off the wall. Beth fell out of his grip and sprawled across the floor. Attelweir’s hand spasmed and the pistol spoke, shockingly loud in the chamber. North and Beth cried out together as North collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach. Dark red blood leaked between his fingers, staining his shirt.
Beth crawled on her knees to his side as Shoffer leapt over them and smashed his fist into Attelweir’s face.
“Stop, stop,” shouted the dowager and was ignored.
All of Shoffer’s attention was on the hated person of Attelweir. The aging roué could not match him in strength or passion. Again and again Shoffer’s fist drove into Attelweir, breaking his nose, blacking his eye. A rib broke beneath Shoffer’s fist and even that was not enough to satisfy his rage.
“Murderer,” came Beth’s voice. “You have killed Mr. North!”
Shoffer froze, then turned to stare at his sister kneeling beside North’s silent, bleeding form.
“No,” he whispered as his hands sagged toward the floor. No. It could not be so. North could not be dead.
“I shall see you hang,” continued Beth in a quivering voice. “I shall pay for all the hunters of Bow Street to track you down, no matter where you flee, you bastard. You murderer. I will see you dead for this.”
Attelweir rose up, desperation fueling him, and sent Shoffer sprawling. Then he ran past Beth and North, charging out into the night.
Silence reigned after his departure only to be broken by the dowager’s voice.
“Pray remove the body,” she said. “That rug he is bleeding on is quite valuable.”
* * *
Given who Mr. North was and his general reputation within the ton, it should not have been so much of a surprise that his funeral became the place to go and the event to see and be seen – the most glamorous and significant gathering of the season. On the morning of the funeral, old St. George's Church was full to overflowing with people and flowers. Common people, distracted and attracted by the procession of the ton dressed in deepest mourning, lined the street two deep in some places trying to find out who was being buried. Considering the fuss, they whispered to each other, it must be a royal cousin at the very least! Faded bunting, left over from the last royal wedding was fetched out of attics and hung hastily along the streets.
The London modistes had good reason to bless Mr. North’s memory. So late in the season, demand for new clothing tended to die down as budgets were stressed and parties decreased, but most of the women of the ton were determined to appear in some degree of mourning clothes for Mr. North’s funeral, and therefore, kept dressmakers and seamstresses busy to all hours in the days preceding the funeral. Even the brightest tulips of the ton disdained their colors that day and went about in Brummellian black. Members of the military put on their least faded formal parade uniforms and strutted about for the entertainment of the throng.
When Mr. North’s coffin was carried from the church with Shoffer, Duke of Trolenfield leading on the right side, Mr. North’s brother-in-law to be, a simple secretary, in the middle, and a farmer come hot foot all the way from Wales to fulfill this honor following, the other side staffed by officers in full regimentals, one wag was moved to comment that all that was required was an Indian chief to make the funeral complete.
It was agreed by those who claimed to know him well that Mr. North would have found the whole parade amusing.
Most of the gentlemen, once they had seen Mr. North’s body safely into the ground, came late to the tea. Later, the news sheets commented that the gathering was the most enjoyable funeral ever attended. Mildred Boarder’s reputation as a society hostess would have been established by the event, except that she was marrying beneath her, and was unlikely to host another. Since it was a love match no one was moved to complain – beyond the bride’s mother.
Shoffer, Duke of Trolenfield, was late to the wake to no one’s particular surprise. It was well known that he was harassing the authorities, demanding the Duc of Attelweir be run to ground and brought to justice for the heinous crime of murdering his friend.
No one was certain about the exact circumstances of the crime. Despite that, rumors abounded. It was generally said that North discovered Attelweir in the act of forcing himself upon some well-bred young lady and acted to save the girl. Attelweir foully struck him down and alas, North died of his wounds before he could claim the girl’s hand as his reward. Fortunately, the ever present Shoffer witnessed the attack and gave testimony of Attelweir’s degenerate and murderous nature, saving some other poor girl from the burden of marrying Attelweir. The girl’s name was a complete mystery – which also served to preserve her reputation – so no one inquired closely.
There was talk of a memorial of some kind for Mr. North, but no one could agree of what type or where and eventually the subject was dropped.
There was even a contingent of actors and actresses at the gathering – invited, but not required, after all, to make the afternoon a success. One well-endowed singer claimed publicly and repeatedly to have been Mr. North’s mistress. As soon as Shoffer heard of this, he whisked the woman away – tucking a hundred quid into her glove as he assisted her into a hackney – but not before the story took root in the gossip pool. In death, Mr. North’s name and reputation were cleared.
Mr. North laughed so hard when she heard all of this that she started her wound bleeding again.
* * *
The events of that traumatic evening had continued thusly:
Shoffer half crawled across the chamber to North’s side. Tears were drying on his sister’s cheeks as she held North’s pale, unmoving head on her lap. When Shoffer touched her hand, North’s eyes flickered and opened.
“Gone?” she whispered, smiling up at him.
Relief poured through him like an ocean wave.
“North! By the gods, do not scare me like that!”
“I do apologize,” said North and winced when Shoffer’s hand brushed over his bloody shirt.
“North told me what to say,” said Beth. “And it worked. Attelweir has fled and he will not be back.”
“Not with so many witnesses to his attempt to kill North,” Shoffer agreed.
“Did you not hear me?” cried Lady Philomena. “Take him away to finish dying.”
Shoffer gathered North into his arms and did not grant the dowager the slightest piece of his attention. Beth, however, gave a formal curtsy and smiled.
“Dear Grandmother, please remember, my dear brother and his friend have gifted me with enough guns for every day of the week. In future, I shall carry two. One for you and one for whomever you should find worthy of marrying me.”
Then she turned and hurried after her brother. Lady Edith gave a half-hearted bob and trailed along behind.
“It is my fault,” said Beth, touching North’s cold hand. “I allowed him to take the gun from me. If I…”
“Never say so,” said North. “I shall be so disappointed in you if you think you are responsible for the actions of another. Attelweir chose to steal your gun and it was Attelweir who fired it. Considering all his actions, will you take responsibility for his gambling, his womanizing?”
“No!”
“Exactly.” North gasped and tightened her grip on Shoffer’s shoulder.
Outside two carriages awaited them.
“Beth goes home with Lady Edith,” whispered North. “Take me to your assignation house.”
Shoffer paused, until that moment he had given no thought to what needed to be done beyond getting North to a physician, then he realized the consequences of that action.
“I must go with you,” cried Beth. “I refuse to be left behind.”
“Please, Beth, go home so my mind will be at rest,” said Millicent. “Shoffer shall fetch my cousin Mildred. She is a sensible girl with experience in stillroom matters. When did you last tincture or compound?”
Beth’s lips quivered, but she bit them to bring them under control.
“Promise me you will not die, dear Mr. North and I will stay behind.”
“I shall do my best to obey,” said North and with that, Beth had to be content and permitted the ducal footmen to assist her into her carriage and to bear her away.
Shoffer lifted North into the other carriage and directed it toward Maricourt Place. Once in the dimness of the carriage, Shoffer peeled the fabric back from Millicent’s belly, exposing the wound. Powder burns marked one side of her stomach, near to a long, narrow, slowly oozing furrow.
“It went across, not in,” gasped Shoffer and pressed his face into the curve of her neck. “Bless you for not being dying!”
“Run in, when we reach Maricourt Place and fetch Mildred out without letting anyone else know the events of the evening.”
Shoffer obeyed – to a degree. Millicent bit her teeth when the carriage rocked and Mildred climbed in – followed by Mr. Johansen.
“What is he doing here?” demanded Millicent of Mildred.
“Mr. Johansen has just informed me, your brother Perceval has died!” said Mildred. “I thought you should know as soon as possible.”
“Died?” Millicent gasped, clutching at her stomach.
“Indeed, Mr. North,” said Mr. Johansen. “It would be most unwise of you to die at this moment as you have just inherited your brother’s estate. A well maintained one, you know, worth near twenty thousand a year.”
Millicent closed her eyes as Shoffer laughed.
At the assignation house, Millicent requested Mr. Johansen remain downstairs while Mildred and Shoffer saw to her needs upstairs. The housekeeper, with her energy divided tending to the gentleman lawyer downstairs –“tea, if you do not mind, ma’am” – and hot water and bandages for the upstairs – “no physician, thank you, Mrs. Foster, I wish for Mr. North to live!” – it accidentally came to pass that Mrs. Foster did not enter the bedchamber, leaving Mildred to care for the injured Mr. North, and was never given an opportunity to suspect his gender was anything other than male.
After her wound was gently washed and bandaged Millicent drew her blankets up to her chin and requested Mr. Johansen be brought to her.
“And lower the candles, Mildred, if you would.”
“What are you about?” asked Shoffer.
Millicent did not look in his direction. It was a difficult decision to make and it was hers alone. She would never have a better opportunity.
When Johansen entered he found a pale, barely breathing Mr. North near buried under the weight of the coverlets. He raised a thin hand, which shook as he pointed at a table.
“There is paper there, Mr. Johansen. Sit down. I want you to take down my will.”
“North, you are not s
o injured as that,” cried Shoffer, even as Mildred caught her breath and began to sob.
“A precaution only, my dear friend,” whispered North bravely. Returning her attention to the lawyer, North gave a tremulous smile. “His Grace, the Duke of Trolenfield has consented to be my executor and the will is simple to record. I give all I have inherited to be shared equally, outright, between my cousins.”
Mr. Johansen wrote this out in legal terms, which took longer to write than to say. Before he finished, Mr. North added.
“And two hundred pounds to a Mr. Merit. As he is going to be butler to my cousin Felicity Boarder, I should like that he should have money put aside so that when she drives him crazy he may threaten to resign with confidence.”
“The one who kept fainting?” inquired Mr. Johansen.
Mr. North rolled his eyes and laughed weakly. Once the will was written Mr. and Mrs. Foster were fetched up to sign as witnesses and a hackney was fetched to take Mr. Johansen home.
Shoffer waited until the front door shut behind him, then turned to Millicent.
“So, Mr. North will die of his wounds?”
“Apparently,” said Millicent. “As you kept reminding me, the deception cannot continue forever. Besides, if North survives, Attelweir will return. If North dies, Attelweir must flee to the continent, a suspected murderer with his neck as forfeit, never to return and plague us again.”
“I thank you for your sacrifice in care of my sister, Mr. North,” Shoffer pressed her hand to his chest. “I shall honor your memory.”
Millicent nodded, then accepted the laudanum wine Mildred had prepared, settled down in the bed, and slept.
* * *
Indeed, Millicent was vastly amused by everything to do with her alter ego’s funeral. She sent Shoffer out to buy the most elaborate and gilt decorated coffin that could be found, demanded that it be lined with the finest white silk and even directed the type, number, and arrangement of the floral tributes.
“For a skinflint you have expensive tastes in afterlife furniture,” grumbled Shoffer, who was paying for the event.