by D. M. Quincy
“I most certainly did. And I intend to confess to it in the House of Lords.”
“Where you shall be judged by your peers. Who will most likely give you a slap on the wrist at most. They shall hardly send one of their own to the gallows for killing a woman as common as Mrs. Pike.”
Francis flushed. “Now see here. Do not speak about my mother—”
“Do be silent, Francis.” Vessey kept his cold stare fixed on Atlas. “I stand ready to face the judgment of my peers. After all, a peer cannot be tried in a court by people who are beneath him.”
“No,” Atlas acknowledged. “But a bastard can. Even if he was sired by a marquess.”
Francis let out an audible sound of disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. Surely you do not believe I killed my own mother.”
Atlas’s unwavering gaze held Francis’s. “I do believe it.”
Vessey laughed without amusement. “That’s absurd. You are absurd.”
Francis pressed the flat of one hand against his chest. “Why would I kill my own mother? I loved her.”
“I believe that you did love her. That is, until you came upon her in the most intimate of situations with the manager of Covent Garden,” Atlas said, revealing what Juliet had told him.
“That is an outrageous lie!” The words seemed to burst out of Francis’s chest. “She was an honorable woman who was faithful to my father.”
“Mrs. Pike was indeed an honorable woman,” Atlas agreed. “What you saw that evening was a woman enjoying intimate marital relations with her husband.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Vessey’s words were rife with anger and scorn. “You have finally gone mad, Catesby.”
“Wendela Pike wed Simon Cooke a few weeks before her death.” Calm certainty settled over Atlas as Vessey grew more agitated. “I saw the license and confirmed the marriage at St. Paul’s where they wed. It is in the registry.”
Both father and son appeared stunned by this revelation.
Atlas continued. “But Francis had no way of knowing that. All of his life he protected his mother from anyone who dared call her a whore. And he was right to do so. Wendela was not a whore. She was a young girl who was taken advantage of by a much older man. A man who took her innocence but refused to assure her future by giving her some sort of settlement.”
“I took care of Wendy.” Vessey strode over to the sideboard, where a drinks tray had been laid out. “She came from nothing. She was fortunate that I gave her everything.”
Atlas watched Vessey pour himself a whiskey. “You gave her everything except your name and respectability. And a financial settlement that would assure her future.”
“You should have given her the money, Father,” Francis said shakily. “If you had, Mother would not have turned to that Covent Garden charlatan.”
“Shut your mouth, Francis,” Vessey warned.
Francis turned to Atlas. “You would have done the same if you had witnessed what I had the misfortune of seeing.” Francis’s pale complexion was mottled with patches of red, a sharp contrast against his pale-colored hair. “She was bent over the theater manager’s desk with her skirts hiked up around her waist.”
Vessey slammed his glass back onto the tray. “Not another word,” he warned his son.
“He was swiving her like she was a common lightskirt.” Francis’s eyes were wild, as if he were seeing the scene all over again. “And Mother behaved like one. Crying out, urging him on. It was disgusting. Common and low.”
“Hold your tongue, boy!” Vessey almost shouted.
“That is when I was forced to acknowledge the truth about myself.” Bitterness twisted Francis’s mouth, enhancing the sharpness of his long nose. “No matter how hard I try, no matter how flawless my manners are, or that my education was second to none. None of that mattered once I saw Mother for what she truly was and, consequently, myself for who I truly am. Which is nothing but the ill-begotten son of a whore.”
“Silence!” Vessey roared. “You are the son of the Marquess of Vessey.”
“I am a man without my father’s name,” Francis said wearily.
“Is that why you killed Jasper?” Atlas asked. “Is it because he saw your mother in that situation?”
Francis shook his head. “I did not kill Jasper. He was my friend.”
“He may have been your friend,” Atlas acknowledged, “but you did kill him.”
“Stop talking this instant!” Vessey commanded his son. He lodged himself between Atlas and Francis, as if blocking Atlas’s view of Francis would also shield the young man from the truth. Vessey glared at Atlas. “I insist that you leave.”
“No, I will leave,” Francis interjected. He started for the door in an almost dreamlike state. “My father wishes for me to go abroad.”
“I am certain that he does. I expect he believes you shall escape justice by doing so.” Atlas strolled over to the door, reaching it before Francis, and blocked the exit with his imposing frame. “I know you killed Jasper.”
“You cannot know that,” Francis said. “Only a monster would kill two people as you have said.”
“You wanted Jasper to kill your mother after you saw her with Simon Cooke. When Jasper refused, you took his gun, the one he carried for protection against those to whom he was indebted, and killed her yourself.”
Francis tilted his head as he considered Atlas. “Not true. And even if it were true, you could not prove it.”
“Then you paid off all of Jasper’s debts almost immediately afterwards to keep him quiet. And when you worried Jasper was about to reveal the truth to me, you poisoned him.”
“Rubbish. I was out in the garden.”
“Yes, you were in the garden,” Atlas said. “But not with any lady. You told me yourself that you and Jasper used to love to climb trees.”
“That hardly proves that I killed anyone.”
“You lied the evening Jasper died. You told me there was no way in or out of the gallery except through the door. You neglected to mention that the mirrors were, in fact, hidden window shutters.”
“Why would any of that nonsense be of interest to me or my son?” Vessey interjected.
“Because that is how Francis was in a position to kill Jasper. He made certain I was distracted by shooting the Earl of Charlton.” Fury flared in Atlas’s gut at the memory of his friend lying pale and bloodied in Balfour’s library. “And then he climbed the horsechestnut tree outside the gallery and accessed the gallery without anyone seeing him.”
“That is an interesting story,” Francis said, “but that is all that it is. Just a story and nothing more.”
“The doctor who came to attend to Jasper stepped on a conker. One I believe fell from your clothes that evening,” Atlas reminded him, recalling the spiny-cased seeds that horsechestnut trees shed in the autumn. “From climbing up the tree.”
“Let us assume, just for a moment, that what you say is true.” Francis regarded Atlas with what almost seemed like grudging admiration. “That I killed my mother when Jasper refused to do the deed for me, and that afterwards Jasper and I reached an agreement that I would consider his debt settled if he held his tongue about what he witnessed the evening my mother died. Would anyone blame me for acting as I did when I realized Jasper was about to betray me by telling you what he knew? Would anyone blame me for climbing up the tree and sneaking into the gallery under the guise of calming my friend’s nerves? Would anyone blame me for offering a disloyal friend one of those infernal comfits he was always chewing on?”
“Only, in this instance, the sweet treat you gave Jasper was laced with laudanum,” Atlas finished the story for him. “Enough laudanum to kill a man almost immediately.”
“But of course, I did not do any of that,” Francis said with a cool smile. “But if I had, who would blame me? Who would blame a man who has been pushed to his limits?”
Atlas placed a heavy hand on Francis’s left shoulder and let it slide down his arm. “There are many who would n
ot blame you.” He squeezed Francis’s biceps. “However, I am not one of them.”
Francis let out a moan and jerked away, his right arm cradling his left.
“Your arm appears to be particularly tender,” Atlas noted. “Is that because I broke it the night I caught you searching Jasper’s rooms at the Albany?”
“I am sure I haven’t any idea of what you speak.”
“I noticed you seemed to be in awful pain when I visited you in your rooms at the Albany.” Atlas leaned his back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “And you never moved your left arm. I have come to realize that the pain you were feeling was not emotional pain at the loss of your mother and friend, as I first assumed. It was physical pain because your arm was broken, or at least severely injured when I delivered that elbow strike to it.”
“You are a smart man, Mr. Catesby,” Francis smirked. “It is possible that if I showed you my arm right now, you would see that you are correct in your deductions. You might see that my arm is swollen and misshapen. Alas, none of that shall do you any good because even if my father refuses to give me the protection of his name, I do believe he will protect me from the gallows.”
“Go now, Francis,” Vessey urged his son. “Go and make certain your valet has readied your things for your extended trip abroad. The carriage is waiting outside for you to make a rapid departure.”
The marquess’s gaze shifted to Atlas, his expression cold and hard. “It is time Catesby and I settled matters once and for all. This reckoning has been in the making for more than twenty years.”
“On that we agree.” Atlas at last saw a way to put his sister’s memory to rest after all these years. “It is well past time that we have this conversation.”
* * *
“What is it that you want?” Vessey asked Atlas after Francis made his exit.
“Just the truth. And for those who have transgressed to be punished for it.”
“Francis shall not hang for killing a whore.” Vessey went to the sideboard and poured two drinks. “Surely you comprehend that.”
“Did you know all along that Francis had killed his mother?”
“No, not at first. My first instinct was to believe Nicholas had done it in a fit of anger. He argued with Wendy shortly before she was killed and that encounter was the first thing that came to my mind when I heard she’d been shot.” Vessey came over and offered Atlas a whiskey. “I discovered the truth the other evening at the opera. A Covent Garden fruit vendor saw Francis at the theater the night Wendy died. She told me as much the other evening and demanded money to buy her silence.”
Atlas had to admire Mary White’s cleverness. Vessey had paid her to keep quiet about Francis, so she’d told Atlas about Nicholas’s argument with Wendy instead. Both men had gotten what they’d paid for. Vessey got the silence he’d bought while Atlas received separate information relevant to the investigation
Vessey continued. “After paying the orange seller to keep quiet, I went inside to pay off the actress and the theater manager. Afterwards I went to see Francis at the Albany, and that is when I realized he was injured.”
Atlas took a drink. “Because I had broken his arm.”
A muscle spasmed in Vessey’s cheek. “Francis was in terrible pain but was afraid to see a doctor. That is when he confessed the truth to me.”
“I gather that is why you decided to tell me you killed Wendy.”
“I knew you had a special acquaintance with the opera singer. I did purchase her silence and that of the theater manager, but I was not convinced they would hold their tongues in the long term.”
“Confessing was your way of protecting Francis.”
“The House of Lords will never hang one of their own for killing a strumpet. And ultimately, that is what Wendy was.”
“Your devotion to Mrs. Pike is heartwarming.”
“Wendy is dead,” Vessey said simply. “She is beyond saving. Francis is not. He is my son, and I love him beyond measure.”
The sounds of a carriage pulling away clattered by the salon window. “You are likely correct about the Lords not hanging you. But your son is another matter.”
“Not entirely.” Vessey turned his gaze toward the window, and Atlas saw him relax a fraction at the thought of putting his son out of harm’s way. “However ill-begotten, Francis is still my son, the son of a marquess. He shall not hang.”
“Normally, I suspect that would be true. However, in this case your bastard son also killed Jasper Balfour, who happened to be the legitimate grandson of a viscount. He also tried to kill Charlton, an earl. I doubt the by-blow of a marquess will be allowed to escape punishment for those offenses.”
Vessey blanched, but his voice remained dispassionate. “You have no proof Francis did anything at all.”
“I think I have more than enough to convince both Charlton and Lord Balfour to see things my way. Both men are well regarded in society. If they press for Francis to be made an example of, I do not doubt they will prevail.”
“Be that as it may, Francis is already on his way to the continent. And soon shall be far beyond the reach of English law.”
“Unfortunately for Francis, that is not so. Before I called here, I stopped by Bow Street and alerted them to the situation. I suspect Francis was picked up the moment the carriage left the property.”
Vessey jerked as though he’d been struck. “You whoreson.” He spat the venomous words. “Your pursuit of this matter has nothing whatsoever to do with Wendy.”
“It has everything to do with justice, which you escaped when you murdered my sister more than twenty years ago. But your son will not escape his fate. He murdered two people and attempted to kill a third. Francis shall be made to pay for his crimes. Balfour and Charlton will see to it.”
Vessey gave a close-mouthed, tight-lipped smile. “I am a marquess, and I am not without my allies.”
“Perhaps, but do not forget that Mrs. Pike was not some nameless whore. You saw to that by showcasing her considerable talents at your oratorios. Because of you, Mrs. Pike was acquainted with wealthy and powerful noblemen. And they in turn were charmed by her and appalled by her violent end. Indeed, even the Duke of Somerville has expressed an interest in finding Mrs. Pike’s killer. “
“Somerville, of course.” Vessey gave a bitter laugh. “I have heard that you are betrothed to his sister, Lady Roslyn.”
When Atlas said nothing, Vessey continued.
“You are no different than your sister, trying to wed above yourself.”
“You were never fit to touch the bottoms of Phoebe’s slippers. But I think anyone, including myself, would agree that Lady Roslyn is far too good for me.”
Vessey shot him a venomous look. “This is your way of punishing me for your sister’s death. You intend to rob me of my son because you think I took your sister from you.”
“I know that you did.”
“All these years. All these years you have waited to get your revenge.” The veins in Vessey’s neck throbbed. “I suppose now you think the score between us is settled.”
“Not even close. My sister was an innocent. We cannot say the same for your son. Like father, like son, I suppose you could say.”
Vessey stabbed a finger at Atlas. “I regret not pushing you down the stairs after your sister when I had the opportunity.”
“You should have pushed me when you had the chance.” Feeling strangely calm, Atlas stared down the man who had murdered his sister. “Because for all of my life since then, I have lived for this—the moment I would see you destroyed.”
CHAPTER 31
Lilliana shuddered. “I cannot believe Francis Pike killed his own mother.”
“Why did the opera singer not tell you the truth about seeing Francis Pike at Convent Garden earlier?” Thea asked Atlas. “She could have spared you a great deal of trouble.”
“Especially considering,” Lilliana interjected with a sardonic tilt of her head, “that the two of you are so well a
cquainted.”
She looked particularly lovely that evening in a silvery evening gown that caught the light when she moved. Her dark hair was upswept, and the double strand of long pearls adorned her pale neck. His gaze lingered for a moment on the diamond and pearl earrings dangling from her delicate earlobes.
He’d chosen them with great care. The earrings were his first gift to his future wife. Earlier that evening, he’d pulled her aside and presented them to her. She’d exclaimed over the betrothal gift and then thanked him quite enthusiastically in private before they’d joined their assembling guests.
Everyone was gathered in a sumptuous drawing room at Somerville House for the celebratory supper party to mark Atlas and Lilliana’s betrothal. The gathering was modest in Somerville terms, with sixty guests in attendance, including all of Atlas’s siblings except for Apollo, who remained in the country with his horses.
“Mrs. Jennings is a distant memory that I barely recall at all,” Atlas informed Lilliana. Admiration sparkled in his gaze as he raised a glass to his future wife. “I am quite ready to make new memories with my bride and my two new sons.”
He waited for Lilliana to blush, which she did most becomingly. He would never tire of being one of the few people who could slip past this beautiful woman’s icy composure.
“Here, here,” Charlton said, and their little group followed Atlas in raising their glasses to toast the future bride.
“In answer to your question,” Atlas said after they’d all drunk from their glasses, “the reason Juliet did not tell me about seeing Francis Pike backstage on the evening of his mother’s murder is because she was embarrassed.”
“About what?” Thea asked.
“Juliet had a tendre for the theater manager, which is why she was spying on Simon Cooke and Mrs. Pike when she spotted Francis. Confessing that she’d seen Francis meant revealing that she had behaved badly by watching the couple in an intimate situation.”
“It is difficult to believe that a young man as amiable as Francis Pike not only killed his mother but also poisoned Jasper Balfour,” Charlton said. “He is bound to hang for his crimes.”