by Jane Godman
Rosie froze in shock as she stepped into the walled enclosure. It was too late to turn back, but she realised at once her foolishness in walking into a trap.
Poulter, Clive’s faithful groom, was coming towards her, and a glimmer of the very real danger she was in began to dawn. She turned away, preparing to run, but it was too late. The giant was blocking her escape.
“Lady Sheridan, my master asked me to tell you it will be much worse for Lady Harpenden if I do not bring you back with me at once.”
Remaining poised for flight, Rosie glanced around her, seeking another means of escape. “Her ladyship is safe inside the house.” She hoped it might still be the truth.
His expression told its own story. “We both know that is not the case.”
Before she could respond, the huge guard had thrown a heavy cloak over her head. Wrapping her in it, he lifted her bodily off her feet. Grunting a little as she struggled wildly within its folds, her assailant threw her over a shoulder that resembled an iron girder. The man carrying her appeared to have muscles of steel, since no matter how hard Rosie kicked him, he did not flinch under the flurry of blows.
From the musty depths of the cloak, Rosie could hear Poulter abjuring the other man to be quick about it. They seemed to be covering uneven ground, since she was jolted and shaken as the giant carried her. Although she attempted to judge for how long they walked, Rosie found it impossible. Nevertheless, from the time it took them to reach their destination, she believed it must be Clive’s home. Halting, the man carrying her gave a grunt of satisfaction, and Rosie was placed on her feet before being thrust unceremoniously into a room she did not recognise. Since she had expected to find herself inside Sheridan Hall, she was surprised. This chamber was much too small and plain to be part of that grand property. Not wasting time on questions about her whereabouts, she spun round like a hell-cat to confront her abductors, just in time to see the door slam shut as they left her.
Chapter Seventeen
A soft, anguished sound drew Rosie’s attention into the room, and she turned, giving a gasp of horror at the sight which met her eyes. Lady Harpenden was seated on a high-backed chair, her hands bound behind her and her feet securely tied to the chair legs. A gag had been stuffed into her mouth, and her breathing was laboured. Closer examination showed that this was because her nose appeared to be broken.
With an exclamation, Rosie rushed forward and carefully removed the gag, allowing her ladyship to draw in several deep, ragged breaths through her mouth. Her left eye was already nearly closed, and her right eye registered fear and confusion. She was incapable of speech. Using her right hand, Rosie managed to untie her hands. Kneeling, she undertook a similar struggle with the bonds around Lady Harpenden’s feet. She was about to help her ladyship up when a guttural, panicky sound rose in the woman’s throat. Her eyes were fixed in horror on a point above Rosie’s left shoulder.
“Good evening, Rosie.” Clive’s voice was level, even conversational. “How nice of you to pay my Aunt Alberta a call. You must excuse her if she has not thanked you suitably. Her manners seem to have deserted her somewhat. I can’t imagine why.”
Rosie got slowly to her feet and turned to face him. Although she was trembling with terror and revulsion in every fibre of her being, she was determined that he should not know it. “Clive, your aunt is hurt. She needs care urgently—”
“Shut your chattering mouth!” The mercurial switch from polite chitchat to deranged snarl shocked Rosie, though she had already witnessed his capricious mood changes at first hand. His mental state had deteriorated further, a thought which caused an icy finger to trace a line down her backbone.
“I’ve had quite enough with my Aunt Harpenden here telling me what I should and should not be doing. I don’t need to hear it from my bloody insubordinate wife as well.”
Clive looked awful. His skin was the colour of uncooked pastry, the puffiness of his face accentuated by the hollow sunkenness of his eyes. Even at a distance of several feet, the unwashed, feral smell rolling off his body made Rosie’s stomach turn. The wild expression she had noticed occasionally was now a permanent feature, and his lips were constantly flecked with spittle, which he kept wiping away on the left sleeve of his coat. The other sleeve was stiff with dried blood, and the arm itself hung loosely at his side. Rosie, her mind racing with options for a possible means of escape, decided that she could not rely on the fact that he appeared to be unable to use that arm. After all, she was similarly hampered by her broken wrist.
“I see I now have your undivided attention.” He gave his aunt a mock bow, and she moaned uneasily. “My aunt left Delacourt Grange in search of me. I expect she thought she could make me see the error of my ways. I found her snooping around Sheridan Hall and escorted her here to the cottage once occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Dawson.” Clive snickered reminiscently.
The cottage once occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Dawson? Rosie swallowed hard. Lady Drummond had spoken of talking to Mrs. Dawson the day before. Hopefully Clive’s words meant he had turned them out of their home, not that he had harmed the elderly couple.
“My aunt and I have disagreed many times in the past about how I choose to spend my cash, but I think we can now reach a mutually satisfying resolution. Is that not so, Aunt?” Clive asked, and Lady Harpenden nodded her head obediently. Rosie’s heart ached to see this proud woman reduced to such straits. “Indeed, before you interrupted us, my aunt was most generously agreeing to meet my needs from her own fortune. Is that not most bountiful of her, my dear?”
Rosie had been scanning the room for something to use as a weapon, but Clive’s words brought her attention fully back to him. He seemed to require a response, so she smiled weakly.
“Splendid!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Now, my dear, we must press on with our plans, must we not? I must confess my anticipation of consummating our marriage has been heightened further by recent events.” He licked his lips lasciviously, and Rosie felt sick bile churn in her gut.
“You cannot think I will return to you and resume our married life?” The words burst from her before she could check them.
“My dear Rosie, you have no choice.” His voice was patient, in the manner of a parent chastising a small child. “You are forgetting that I still hold your brother’s confession. And before your intrepid rescuers arrive, I must remind you once more that my lawyer is under strict instructions to make the contents of that document public should anything untoward befall me. I think all that remains is for us to await the arrival of the so-dashing Lord St. Anton and that tame bear of yours. The one you call Drury.”
“I don’t think they will come. They do not know where I am.”
“Oh, they will come. They are both so very fond of you, my darling. But please don’t worry your pretty head that they will come between us again. Poulter has hired a willing thug, and they have strict instructions to finish your fine lover off. Once and for all this time.”
Forcing herself to remember that Jack also had the Falcon and his men on his side meant Clive’s threats were marginally less panic inducing. Rosie’s most immediate concern was that Lady Harpenden’s face was grey and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. Her breathing was coming in shallow, ragged pants, and she appeared to be unaware of her surroundings. “Clive, please, let me fetch help for your aunt. If I can send for Mrs. Dawson, she will be able to prepare a hot, sweet drink for the shock, and if I can tend her wounds, it will ease her discomfort.”
Clive sighed. “Mr. and Mrs. Dawson are both somewhat indisposed,” he said apologetically. “Servants sometimes need a reminder of their place.”
Rosie shuddered at the thought of what Clive might have done to the aging, harmless couple who had served his family devotedly for so many years. She wasn’t sure Jack and Tom would get here in time to save Lady Harpenden, and she knew it was only a matter of time before Clive’s attentions were turned i
n her direction. His brutality towards her last time was fresh in her mind. And this time she knew it would be worse.
At that moment the door opened and Poulter entered. His face was troubled. The groom nodded deferentially in Rosie’s direction, an action that struck her as faintly ridiculous. The man had clubbed her about the head a few days ago and had just abducted her, for heaven’s sake! In the circumstances, his courtesy was somewhat misplaced.
“My lord.” He kept his voice low key. “The old man is in a bad way. I don’t think he’ll live unless I can get him some help.”
“’Tis the same situation with Lady Harpenden here, and Lady Drummond is dead,” Rosie said. “It would appear that you have assisted your master in more than one murder this day.”
The groom’s face paled further as Clive cried shrilly, “Be quiet! Quiet, I say. I will decide what happens here, and I will not be crossed.”
“She’s right. God knows I’ve done some dirty deeds at your orders, Sir Clive, but this is different. I’ll not commit murder for you.” Poulter faced him bravely, much to Rosie’s surprise. “I won’t swing for your actions.”
Poulter bowed again to Rosie and came over to join her in her examination of Lady Harpenden, who had slumped in her chair. Rosie, leaning in close, could detect only faint signs of breathing.
The sound of footsteps outside made everyone glance around. “The rescue party, unless I’m very much mistaken,” Clive sneered. “Go and join your companion, Poulter. You have your orders.”
With what she construed to be a reassuring glance, Poulter got to his feet. Seconds later, Jack burst into the room. He was accompanied by a masked man, who wore a muffler pulled up over the lower part of his face. Poulter, clearly having escorted them instead of attacking them, followed close behind.
“You!” The word was wrenched from Clive’s lips as he stared in disbelief at Jack’s companion. “Good God, how is this possible?”
“I told you I would not be able to disguise my identity.” The drawling voice was familiar to Rosie, but she was too concerned about Lady Harpenden to allow herself to be distracted.
Clive, his face contorted with fury, struggled to get the pistol out of his coat pocket with his ruined right hand. His arm shook as he stepped forward and levelled the gun at Rosie’s head.
“Move away from there.”
She looked up at him, her eyes widening in alarm. “Clive, I must take care of your aunt…”
“Do as I say.” He turned to Jack with a snarl. “Keep your distance, or you will see her brains spread across this room.”
Gripping Rosie around the waist with his left arm, Clive kept the gun under her chin with his right. Although the weapon shook wildly in his injured hand, she sensed his determination as he hauled her away from his aunt and Poulter. Her eyes remained fixed on Jack’s. His face was ashen, and she knew they were sharing the same thoughts. Was this the end for them? After everything they had faced, was this to be the way they said goodbye?
“You have failed, my lord. Just as you failed in your attempt to bribe one of my servants to spy on me. Did you think I would not find out? The Thames hides its secrets—and the bodies of the treacherous—well. And now you are too late to save her. My wife will die for love of you.” Clive’s feral growl became a self-pitying whine. “Which is what she would choose, God rot her. Why did you have to decide on Delacourt Grange as your hiding place? If it wasn’t for you, it would be me she loved. Me she gazed at with devotion in her eyes. It would be my child she cradled in her arms with such tenderness—”
“Listen to me, Clive.” It was Lady Harpenden’s voice, faint and slightly breathless. “I didn’t seek you out to remonstrate with you. I wanted to plead with you. To tell you that your mother would not have wanted this.”
The hand holding the gun trembled even more, and Rosie heard his indrawn breath. “Don’t speak to me of her! She never loved me.” There was a sob in his voice as he continued. “None of you have ever cared for me.”
“That’s not true. Your mother loved you very much. As I do.”
Rosie sensed his uncertainty. The gun was lowered slightly. She was aware of Jack and his companion making slight hand gestures to each other, communicating without words. The masked man moved stealthily to one side of Clive. “She could not have loved me and left me with him. My father was a monster.”
“She did not leave you through choice, Clive. You meant everything to her…” Her voice faltered and Lady Harpenden slumped forward in her chair. No-one moved.
Poulter’s quiet voice broke the silence. “I think her ladyship is dead.”
“No!” It was an impassioned wail. Rosie knew that the rational man deep inside Clive still loved and respected his aunts, and it seemed that Lady Harpenden’s words had—on some level, at least—touched him. The gun was pressed hard against her chin again, and she tensed, waiting for the shot she felt must inevitably follow.
Jack sprang across the distance between them, launching himself at Clive. At the same time, the masked man approached him from behind.
With a sound halfway between a laugh and a howl, Clive shoved Rosie away from him and raised the pistol shakily to his temple. A single shot echoed round the room, and Clive pitched face down onto the floor.
Jack caught Rosie as she stumbled towards him, holding her against his chest and turning her face to his neck so that she did not have to look at the ruined body of her husband.
“Are you hurt?” Jack’s voice resonated with the shock that hung in the air.
Rosie shook her head, unable to reply. Unable to do anything except cling to him.
Grimacing, the masked man stepped forward and threw his coat over what remained of Sir Clive Sheridan. At the same time, Lady Harpenden, defying the odds, drew in an endless breath.
“What happened?” Although her breathing was irregular, her eagle eyes took in the scene at a glance.
“His torment was finally brought to an end by his own hand, my lady.” Jack led Rosie over to Lady Harpenden’s chair. “I believe he was rational at the end, and could not bear to live with the guilt of what he had done.”
Rosie’s mind persisted in dwelling on what she had witnessed, replaying it over and over. Her body was in shock, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling, her skin cold and clammy. But Lady Harpenden needed her. She wasn’t out of danger yet, and the older woman had lost her nephew as well as her sister this day.
Dropping to her knees beside the chair, Rosie clasped Lady Harpenden’s hand. “We need to get you to Delacourt Grange so that we can fetch a doctor to see to your wounds.” She glanced around. “Jack, can you and your friend…” Her voice trailed off.
Jack’s companion had gone.
* * *
Jack was subdued on his return to Delacourt Grange after the funeral. He bowed low over Lady Harpenden’s outstretched hand. “It is done, my lady.”
Her face, still a patchwork of different coloured bruises, relaxed a little. “Was there any talk?”
Rosie couldn’t quite believe that, in spite of everything, the family name was still what mattered most to her. Stubbornly, she had refused to see a doctor, stating that she wanted no speculation about her injuries. She had insisted that both Clive and Lady Drummond be buried as quickly as possible and with as little ceremony as could be managed. The vicar of the small parish church had been so overawed by her that he had agreed to her demands. It seemed wrong to Rosie that Lady Drummond’s body had been laid to rest in the Sheridan family vault alongside that of the nephew who had murdered her. All she could hope was that her kindly friend was at peace.
Jack shook his head. “The story that he died in a tragic hunting accident is holding up in the neighbourhood. Your ladyship’s generosity to the Dawsons—together with the fact that Poulter and his bovine accomplice are facing the noose if they breathe a word of the truth—have ensured that there i
s no tongue-wagging. Poulter would be well advised to make himself scarce and not be seen in London. When I questioned him, he let slip the information that it was he who told Sheridan that Benson, the young footman, was being paid to spy on him. And Poulter knew his master had disposed of the lad’s body in the river. Fortunately, in this area, most locals were unaware of Sheridan’s worst excesses and the recent deterioration in his mood. The gossip had only just begun.”
“And Mr. Dawson?” The dressing applied by the doctor to Lady Harpenden’s damaged nose accentuated her hawklike expression.
“He will make a full recovery. The injuries were less serious than they first appeared, and he and Mrs. Dawson have been very understanding. Their devotion to your family is quite remarkable.”
“The Dawsons have been with the family for a long time. They joined the household when Clive’s parents were first married. The worst aspect of this aftermath has been covering up my sister’s murder. I know, Rosie, that you objected at first to my suggestion that we should persuade the coachman he was mistaken about who killed her, but I do believe this way is for the best. The poor man will be well rewarded with a position in my employment, and the magistrate is satisfied it was a highway robbery that went wrong.” She patted Rosie’s hand. “This way, you will not have to live with the stigma of being the widow of a murderer, and Xander can escape that shadow as he grows up.”
Something of the weariness she felt showed on her face, and Jack offered her his arm so that he could escort her into the morning room, where Mrs. Glover had laid out a light luncheon. Rosie followed them. She knew that Lady Harpenden felt an inordinate amount of guilt over Clive’s death and the events leading up to it, and was hiding it beneath her brusque exterior. She wondered if things might have been different had there not been so many high expectations projected onto Clive when he was a boy. Lady Harpenden had recognised his fragility. Would things have turned out differently if she had been sympathetic and done something about it? In her fierce determination to protect the family name, had she been responsible for destroying its most prominent member? Or was the damage already done when her brother, detecting something of his wife’s wildness in their son, had attempted to beat it out of him? Those questions would forever haunt Lady Harpenden, and Rosie—knowing there were no straightforward answers—felt sincerely sorry for her.