by Darcy, Norma
“No, my lord.”
“Who is this man?”
John looked at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. “Her brother-in-law. She hoodwinked him and he has never forgiven her for it.”
“There, you are free. Can you stand?”
“With your lordship’s help.”
The earl helped him to his feet and then set about untying the other servants.
“You need a doctor,” said Lord Marcham, frowning at the fall of blood on John’s face.
“No time for that. I must go after them.”
“You are in no fit state to go anywhere. Tell me where they have gone.”
“He’s obsessed with her, my lord.”
“John,” the earl demanded. “Tell me.”
* * *
Miss Blakelow stood by the curtains, shivering in the draught of an ill-fitting window. She folded her arms across her chest, wondering if she would survive the jump to the ground below without breaking a limb. She drew back from the window, deciding that it ought not to be attempted. She looked about her for a weapon but found the room to be utterly devoid of clutter. It possessed a bed, a dressing table, a mirror and a table and there wasn’t so much as a hairbrush on any of the surfaces, nor a candle by which to see her way around.
Her head throbbed. They had forced some vile substance down her throat, which had knocked her semi-conscious. Then, as she struggled, someone had hit her over the head. She reached up a hand and felt the bump of a bruise and a rough patch of congealed blood at her temple. She had been unconscious for several hours, long enough for her to be secreted away and locked in this room.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. A key rattled in the door and it opened. The tall figure of a man stood silhouetted against the light from the hallway.
“Come,” he said, beckoning with one hand.
Warily she followed him. He led her along the hallway and down a flight of stairs which curved in a beautiful arc to the grand hall below. Light shone from a doorway and she was pushed towards the room.
It was a dining room and at one end of the long table sat her nemesis, watching her over the rim of his wine glass as he drank. He smiled a cold smile of triumph and indicated that she should be seated at the other end of the table.
“Eat,” he invited. “You must be hungry.”
“What time is it?” she asked, her voice dry and croaky.
“Seven or there abouts.”
“Where am I?”
He smiled again. “Sit, Mary. Eat.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down. A pewter plate was on the table before her, no knife, no fork, not so much as even a spoon was given for her convenience. He clearly didn’t trust her not to use even the simplest object as a weapon.
“Am I expected to eat using my fingers?” she demanded.
“You’ve done a lot worse. Try the bread. It’s good.”
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, cautiously putting a wedge of bread in her mouth.
“Well, that depends.”
“On what?”
“On how reasonable you are willing to be.”
The bread was indeed good. She pulled off another piece and ate it greedily.
“Where is he, Mary?” he asked in a voice as quiet as death.
Miss Blakelow felt a shudder echo along her spine. “Who?” she replied, stalling for time to think.
“I advise you to think carefully before you decide to play me for a fool.”
She swallowed her mouthful and washed it down with a gulp of wine. “I told you before. He died at sea. As did my mother. There was a storm and the ship sank. A lot of people died that day.”
“How then did you survive?”
“I nearly didn’t,” she replied calmly. “The water was cold; I was practically unconscious when they picked me up.”
He brought his open hand down upon the table and the pewter plates jumped as if frightened of the sound. “Don’t lie to me!”
“I am not lying.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that the ship you departed on was a day ahead of the storm? I have it here. See this?” he demanded, pulling a creased sheet of paper from his pocket and waving it at her. “This is a list of the ship’s passengers on the day you left. A woman, a baby and a girl with the surname Crane. The ship, the King’s Glory, arrived safely in Liverpool, precisely when it was due and with no loss of life.”
“Then it is incorrect. I have told you before, and I will tell you again, he died at sea. And it doesn’t matter what you do to me, it won’t alter the truth.”
“The truth!” he repeated angrily, flinging the piece of paper to the floor. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it landed on you. I know he’s alive. I know it.”
“Then you will spend the rest of your life searching for someone who does not exist.”
“He’s my son!”
“A fact that only seems to concern you now that he’s dead,” she retorted with spirit. “You were too busy chasing women to notice that your wife was dying and that your newborn son was set to follow her to the grave.”
“You had no right to take him away from me. You stole him.”
“Yes,” she agreed her eyes blazing. “That I did. You made my sister’s life a misery from the moment she married you. I don’t think there was a maid in the house who you hadn’t tried to seduce. You are repulsive. And Mother and I knew that if we left for England, little Joshua would have a better chance of a future without your polluting influence.”
He was up and out of his chair in a trice and strode towards her. She steeled herself as he reached her and the blow he dealt her across her jaw sent her reeling off the chair and onto the floor. He crouched down, leaning over her, grabbed her hair and twisted the dark gleaming mass around his fist. Something heavy in his pocket banged against her head.
“You are the polluting influence, my love,” he hissed. “Does he realise that his aunt is nothing but a cheap whore?”
She brought her hand up to slap him hard across the face but he easily swatted it away with one arm.
He laughed harshly. “Touched a nerve, did we?”
“Go to the devil,” she recommended, struggling against his grip.
“You thought I was dead, didn’t you? You thought that I would not come after you because I had been killed in that fire. Did you set light to my bed, Mary? Do you add attempted murder to your list of crimes?”
“I wish that I had the forethought to do it,” she retorted, shoving her hands against his chest, “and I wish that it had succeeded.”
“I was hard on your heels from the moment I arrived back in England. And what did I find? A mysterious Miss Sophie Ashton whom no one had ever heard of before had taken the ton by storm.” He broke off with a laugh, tugging her hair to bring her face up to his. “I will never forget the first time you saw me. You stood there in your ball gown, with your new name and your perfectly concocted new life, staring at me as if you had seen a ghost. It was perfect. And that very evening you eloped. And whom did Lady Marcham engage to bring back her wayward son? Why, the loyal family friend. Could there ever have been a moment of greater triumph? Finding you in that inn, miles from anywhere. I could have crushed you then had I chosen to.”
“You all but forced yourself upon me.”
“Hardly,” he replied, his cold alien eyes, glinting. “But you were still warm from Hal’s arms when I arrived after he had deserted you. And oh what a sight you were. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Looking up at me with those big eyes, pleading with me to take you.”
Miss Blakelow struggled to keep control of her emotions as she slowly worked her hand towards his pocket. “I thought you had come to take me home.”
He smiled. “And so I had. My home.”
“As your mistress,” she spat at him.
He raised a brow. “Mistress?” he repeated as if the word were alien to him. “I never keep a woman long enough for her to assume that status. But why get so upset, my
love? I saw what you had given Hal, just for the asking, why should you not give the same to me?”
“Because I chose not to give it to you,” she retorted, her bosom heaving with anger and indignation. “You have no notion of a woman’s right to say no. You took advantage of me. You took advantage of the fact that I was vulnerable and alone. You were Father’s best friend. I trusted you.”
He shrugged. “Yes, you did, didn’t you? How flattering, to be sure. But I never was very heroic, you know.”
“Never was a truer word spoken,” she agreed as her hand slipped inside his pocket. “We were friends…or at least I thought we were. But you saw my friendliness to you as an invitation for you to do with me whatever you wanted.”
He leaned forward until his face was no more than an inch away from hers. The scar on his cheek was deeply rutted by the firelight.
“What kind of man tries to seduce his wife’s fourteen year old sister?” she demanded hotly, her memories flooding back. She remembered his mouth on hers, his hands clawing at the fastenings of her dress…
“I will ask you for the last time,” he snarled. “Where is he?”
She spat in his face. “I will never tell you. Do you hear me? Never!”
As she spoke these words, she grasped the butt of the pistol still inside his pocket, wrapped her finger around the trigger and pulled.
* * *
Lord Marcham heard the sound of a pistol shot as he dismounted his horse. He and John looked at each other. They had ridden long and hard and their horses were sweating profusely.
His lordship threw his reins to John and ran to the front door of the hunting lodge, pounding his fist loudly against the wood. There was no answer. He tried the door but it was bolted against him. He ran to a ground floor window, picked up a large stone from the rockery and threw it against the glass. The window smashed in a pool of glittering shards as the sun threw its first pink rays into the sky. Using another stone he chipped at the remaining stalactites of glass until there was a hole big enough and safe enough for him to pass through. He laid his hands upon the sill and hoisted himself up off the ground and through the window.
He knew the house well. He had been there on numerous occasions as a guest. Hunting parties, lavish dinners, female entertainment to follow.
Cautiously he pulled the pistol from his pocket and made his way through the house, his body tensed, listening for sounds of life. A distant clock chimed the hour.
He heard voices. He moved towards them. He pushed open the dining room door and saw a scene of carnage. Sir Julius Fawcett lay on the floor, bleeding from a shoulder wound, his face as pale as the face of the moon. Blood seeped across the expensive carpet beneath him like a spill of Bordeaux.
“Boyd, don’t mind me, go after her!” hissed the wounded man, gripping the other man’s shoulder. “Bring her back!”
“I cannot leave you, sir,” replied Mr. Boyd, crouching at his master’s side with a pile of towels.
“If we lose her again I will personally rip you limb from limb,” said Sir Julius, grimacing with pain.
“You will do no such thing, Julius,” said Lord Marcham icily from the doorway.
Sir Julius Fawcett looked up as the earl entered. “March,” he murmured as Mr. Boyd plied towels to the wound. “The bitch shot me.”
“Perhaps you deserved it.”
“She can’t have gone far. Boyd, go and bring her back.”
“But sir, you’re bleeding―”
“Go after her or you’ll be looking for new employment.”
Lord Marcham raised his hand and levelled his pistol at the chest of the manservant. “Mr. Boyd, might I suggest that you remain where you are?”
Mr. Boyd looked warily at the pistol, then at the pale face of his master and finally back at his lordship.
“Quite so,” agreed the earl, reading the man’s mind to a nicety. “You’ll be much better off following my orders. What price loyalty, eh Ju? You once warned me not to trust my servants.”
“What the hell do you mean by pointing that pistol at me?” demanded Sir Julius, his forehead sticky and shiny with sweat. “Don’t you remember who saved your life on the battlefield?”
“Oh, spare me.”
“You owe me March,” gasped Sir Julius. “You owe me this!”
“I owe you nothing. I have more than paid my debt to you over the years and you know it.”
“Boyd! Get me up! I’ll go after her if you lack the courage.”
“By all means,” replied the earl. “And we’ll watch you bleed to death all over this expensive carpet.”
“You don’t know what she’s done to me! You don’t know what she is.”
A muscle pulsed in his lordship’s jaw. “On the contrary, I know precisely what she is.”
“She’s done for me, March. The bitch has done for me.”
“You’ll live,” drawled the earl.
“You don’t understand. She took my boy from me, Rob. She stole him. He’s my only son.”
“So I understand. And I know where your boy is.”
There was a silence.
“I beg your pardon?” Sir Julius coughed and blood welled up in his wound.
“I know where and who he is. And I will tell you.”
Sir Julius stared at him as if he could not believe his ears. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I want something in return,” said Lord Marcham, calmly pulling out a chair and straddling it. He laid the pistol down on the table.
“What? I mean, how would you know? You’re bluffing.”
The earl folded his arms along the back of the chair. “Not in the least. I’ve seen him. He’s a fine lad.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
His lordship smiled. “You don’t. You’ll just have to trust me.”
His friend raised himself painfully onto his elbows. “Go on.”
“Imagine, if you will, Captain Clayton, a naval man who moved his young family out to the West Indies to make his fortune. He had two daughters, the eldest of which he married off to the son of a plantation owner. Unfortunately the lady died giving birth to the couple’s child. The bereaved family wished to return to England, and changed their name. Imagine a young girl of sixteen, arriving in England with her baby nephew and her sickly mother. They have little money and little knowledge of England. Where would they go? But to relatives of course. The mother had a brother, a Mr. Thorpe who lived in London. But Mrs Thorpe was not keen on her sister-in-law and soon the lady, let us call her Sophie Crane, found a new husband. Sir William Blakelow, although a man of many failings, he was father to a brood of young children and was looking for a mother for them. He was willing to take young Joshua into his house and the daughter, Mary. There they lived until the mother’s death a few years later. Sir William, by this time in dire financial straits, had no choice but to ask Mary and the little boy to leave. Reluctantly she returned to her uncle. He agreed to give her a season, to launch her into the ton and achieve a good match. Here she took her mother’s Christian name and her grandmother’s maiden name and Sophie Ashton was born into being. She formed a friendship. A friendship with a young widow, whose husband had died in battle and who yearned for a son.”
“Who?” Sir Julius breathed.
“She gave the little boy into the lady’s care.”
“Caro? I don’t believe it…I mean why would she take him on? How do I know he’s mine?”
“Only look at him Ju,” replied the earl caustically. “He’s got your damned hideous nose for one.”
Sir Julius laughed and coughed and blood gurgled.
“Boyd?”
“Yes, my lord?” the man said over his shoulder.
“Have you sent for a doctor?”
“Sir Julius wouldn’t let me.”
“Might I suggest you see to it and with all possible haste?”
“Yes, my lord,” he replied, running from the room.
Lord Marcham knelt by his ol
d friend and made a fresh swab from a clean towel and pressed it against the wound.
“All I ever wanted was to do right by him, March.”
“So you hounded his young aunt halfway across the globe?” demanded the earl.
“I was obsessed with finding him. I was a little obsessed with her too. I admit it,” he croaked. “I wanted to possess her, make her mine. Well, you know.”
“No, I don’t.”
Sir Julius grimaced. “I loved her, in my own way. But then love grew to hate. Does Caro know that you’ve told me?”
“Not exactly.”
“So it is to be our secret.”
“Yes. But I want your promise. I want you to promise me that you will give up your pursuit of Miss Blakelow, Miss Ashton and Miss Clayton and whoever else she may have been in the intervening years. I won’t stand idly by and watch you make her life a misery any longer. Do you understand?”
“You take her side against me? Such old friends as we are?”
“Were, Julius. Past tense. Any man who can treat a woman as you have done is no friend of mine. I want your promise that this is the end.”
There was a silence.
“Julius?”
“Alright,” said the man, wearily laying his head back against the carpet.
“In writing,” insisted his lordship. “And you won’t do anything to take Caro’s boy away?”
“No. But I would like to see him.”
“Well, that would be a start.”
Part 2
Chapter 28
2 years later
Holme Park, Worcestershire, Winter 1819.
It was early and still dark. Lord Marcham had not been aware that he had fallen asleep in the chair in his library until he was awoken by someone vigorously shaking his arm.
He started, sat up abruptly and almost immediately felt a pain in his neck from sleeping with his head at a strange angle. He grimaced and put a hand to the stiff muscles in his shoulders. The room was icy cold and he shuddered. His butler went to close the window and his lordship groaned and blinked his bleary eyes.