An Unwilling Earl

by Sharon Cullen

  She’d stood there for what seemed like a very long time while her aunt simply looked her over.

  “Your mother was a whore,” was the first thing that Aunt Martha had said, and Charlotte had felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. Everyone had always said nice things about her mother, and to hear this was like a slap in the face. It had stung just as much.

  Charlotte had opened her mouth to defend her mother, had taken one look at the hard, emotionless eyes of her aunt, and had promptly shut her mouth.

  “I guess I am the only one willing to take you in. Your mother’s family knows bad blood when they see it.”

  Bad blood? Charlotte had had no idea what that meant but later figured that it meant her mother had somehow tainted Charlotte. She’d refused to let herself believe it and held tight to the stories her father and Lady Crawford had told of her mother.

  Now, five years later, and much older, Charlotte felt the same as the fifteen-year-old girl standing before her aunt back then.

  “I see you’ve landed on your feet,” Martha said. “Just like a cat.”

  Charlotte refused to rise to the bait. Instead she sat in the chair opposite her aunt. “What do you want, Aunt Martha?”

  Her aunt sniffed and looked around. “No tea?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be staying long enough for tea.”

  Those dark, bottomless eyes flashed anger, but she pressed her lips together. “Not much of a house for an earl.”

  Charlotte didn’t feel that she should have to explain Jacob to her aunt, but she did so anyway, because old habits died hard. “The earldom is new to us. We’ll be moving into the Hyde Park house soon.”

  Her aunt tipped her head and studied her, much the same way that she’d studied her all those years ago. “I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I knew you would end up like your mother at some point. I tried my best with you, Charlotte. I tried to beat the demons out of you.”

  This wasn’t the first time that she’d heard about the demons inside of her. She’d spent countless nights lying awake in terror, afraid those demons would come out of her like smoke out of a lamp. She’d pictured them exiting her body through her nose and mouth and then reentering her body the same way.

  “You certainly beat me enough,” Charlotte said.

  “It was for your own good, girl. Don’t forget it.”

  “I think you enjoyed beating me. I think you had some twisted satisfaction in beating me and Edmund.”

  “Edmund has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Doesn’t he?”

  For a moment, Charlotte thought she glimpsed fear in the woman’s eyes, but it was quickly extinguished.

  “Did you come to wish me well on my new marriage, aunt?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “I’d heard the rumors and wanted to see if they were true. I tried to hire him, you know. Your husband. I tried to hire him to find you. You ran off, and I was worried.”

  “Worried? About me? I’m touched.”

  “Freedom has obviously not been good for you, girl. You’re mouthy. If you were living with me I’d—”

  “I know exactly what you would do, and that’s precisely why I’m not living with you.”

  Charlotte blamed Jacob for giving her the courage to speak her mind to her aunt. Or maybe blame wasn’t the right word. Maybe credit would be a better word. Thanks to Jacob she finally had the fortitude to speak her mind.

  Aunt Martha sniffed. “I see you have no respect for your elders. You never have.”

  “Respect must be earned.”

  The woman’s fingers folded into fists as if she wanted to strike Charlotte. And Charlotte, sensing her anger, braced herself for the strike.

  The door opened, and Charlotte was never so glad to see Jacob in all of her life. He seemed to fill the doorway as he took in the scene.

  “What’s happening here?” His voice was low and controlled, but Charlotte sensed the anger vibrating through him.

  “Aunt Martha has come to call,” she said with a bright, forced smile.

  His gaze flickered to her then back to her aunt as he entered the room.

  “I see you’ve managed quite well,” Aunt Martha said to Jacob. “I asked you to find my niece, and not only did you find her, but you wed her.”

  When Jacob pulled up a third chair and sat next to Charlotte she felt that she could finally breathe a bit easier. His presence made everything better.

  “It seems you didn’t tell me the entire story of why Charlotte ran away,” he said.

  Martha’s lips twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You said you had no idea why she would have run. Then later you said that she wasn’t quite right in the head.”

  “Yes, well, you will find that out soon enough. The girl’s not right. Bad blood on her mother’s side.”

  Charlotte clenched her fists in her lap as anger hurtled through her. But Jacob appeared calmer than ever as he studied Martha.

  “Yes, I’ve heard about that. Marrying for love is such nonsense,” he said.

  Charlotte looked at him quickly. What was the game he was playing?

  “Marrying for love is so trite,” Martha said, shaking her head. “Such a shame. I wanted better for the girl.”

  “The girl? You mean Charlotte?”

  Martha sniffed and looked away.

  “I think she did well enough,” he said.

  “Caught herself an earl.”

  Jacob leaned back and crossed his ankle on top of his knee to rest his wrist on it. “Tell me, Lady Morris, how is Edmund…I mean Lord Morris?”

  For a moment Martha didn’t seem to know what to say while Charlotte waited for her answer with breath held.

  “The same as always. Not good for much. Like his father.”

  “God rest his soul,” Jacob murmured.

  Martha’s face paled a bit.

  “I heard he was taken suddenly. Sick one moment, dead the next.”

  Charlotte drew in a breath, surprised at Jacob’s crassness.

  Martha eyed him shrewdly, seemingly not at all offended.

  “I hear your wife died a terrible death,” she said. “Childbed fever is not an easy way to go.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Charlotte could only watch in wonder as the two matched wits, trying to outdo each other, in what? Their ability to shock and bully? It was like a duel with words, with neither flinching at the pointed barbs.

  “I lost my son, too,” he said. “It must be so nice that you still have Edmund to comfort you.”

  Martha seemed to squirm ever so slightly in her seat. “If Edmund were a normal person then yes, it would have been nice.”

  “But he’s not normal. Is he?”

  She looked away, then quickly back as if she didn’t want him to sense vulnerability in her. “He’s normal enough, I guess.”

  “You guess?” he raised a brow at her.

  “He’s Edmund. That’s about all I can say.” She seemed to gather herself, and Charlotte tensed for a verbal attack. She’d learned early on to detect her aunt’s moods. “So, you married the girl for what? Did you tup her, and she forced your hand? It would be just like her. She’s not much different than her mother.”

  Charlotte winced.

  “I married her to save her from you,” he said.

  Martha opened her mouth and then closed it.

  “I can’t imagine from what,” she sputtered. “I took her in. I fed her, clothed her.”

  “Loved her? Taught her how to be a young lady?”

  “Bah. Love makes a person soft, and there’s no need for her to be a young lady when she was meant to serve me for the rest of my life. Oh, yes, didn’t you know, Charlotte?” A wicked gleam entered Martha’s eyes. “I was grooming you to take care of me in my older years. No one else to do it, might as well be the scraggly orphan.” She pointed a bony, crooked finger at Charlotte, and it took e
verything Charlotte had not to back away from it. “You owe me, girl.”

  “I would have killed myself if I had known that was my fate,” Charlotte said.

  The finger wavered, and finally she lowered it to her lap. “That’s a sin. Desecration of a body that God gave you.”

  “Like killing innocent women is not a sin? Cutting their heads off? Tossing them in the river for the fish to feed off of?”

  For a moment Martha was completely still, the color drained from her face. She stood quickly. Charlotte stood, too, her instincts kicking in from so many years of dodging the woman’s open hand.

  She raised that hand, pulled it back, and Charlotte stood her ground, head high, not willing to let the woman see her fear. Not anymore.

  Jacob stepped between them. “I think it’s best you leave, Lady Morris. And it would probably be good if you didn’t come back.”

  Slowly, her hand dropped to her side, and Charlotte could see that she was trembling with rage.

  What had this visit really been about? Did her aunt want to see with her own eyes that Charlotte was truly out of her reach, or did she want to assess the situation to determine what her next move would be?

  With a harrumph Martha moved toward the door.

  “Aunt Martha.”

  The woman turned reluctantly, her hand on the doorknob. “We both know why I left, and it had little to do with your treatment of me.”

  For a moment the woman looked old and frail, her wrinkles more defined, her once erect shoulders stooped. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of, girl.”

  “I think you do. I think you know what Edmund is doing, and you’re frightened for him. Maybe even frightened of him.”

  She scoffed, but this time Charlotte saw the deep-seated fear. “That boy? He’s too much of an idiot to do anything other than what I tell him. Has no brain, that one. Not good for anything.”

  Charlotte had heard this dozens of times. It had made her feel sorry for Edmund. Until he’d destroyed her doll. And then she’d tried to stay away from both of them.

  “He needs help,” Charlotte said, thinking maybe she could get through to her aunt. She seemed vulnerable at the moment, a little lost. Maybe Charlotte could help.

  “He needs a good beating. Get those demons out of him. Prayer is what he needs.”

  “If you’re frightened then you need to tell the police what you know.”

  Aunt Martha raised her chin, looked down her nose at Charlotte. “What would I be frightened of, girl? My own son?” She laughed, a reedy sound that was more like a wheeze. “You’re daft, just like I told your husband you were.” She jutted her chin toward Jacob. “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. God save you then.”

  She swooped out of the room. Charlotte moved to the window where she could see her aunt descending the steps and climbing into her decrepit coach.

  Jacob put his hands on her shoulders. “How are you?”

  “Shaken, but surprisingly well. I wasn’t expecting her to visit.”

  “What did she want?”

  “That’s what I can’t figure out. Why come now?”

  “Talk about daft. She’s about as daft as one can get.”

  Charlotte leaned back into the strength of her husband. “You were magnificent.”

  He laughed. “That’s high praise, indeed.”

  “You were so well composed, as if she wasn’t getting under your skin, when I knew she was.”

  “That’s what I do. I’ve interviewed countless criminals and victims. You can’t let them see that they are getting to you or they win. Your aunt is no different than them.”

  “I wish I had known you sooner. I wish you could have been there to point this out to me when I was younger and terrified of her.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t think it would have had the same effect on you as it does now.”

  His hands slid down until he wrapped his arms around her middle.

  Good Lord, but I love this man.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Charlotte stared up at Scotland Yard, still unable to believe she was here. “People in the rookery call it The Yard,” she said.

  Jacob held out his arm, and she took it, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. After Martha had left their house, Jacob had announced that they needed to do something about Edmund.

  “I married you to save you from your aunt, but we need to save London from Edmund,” he’d said.

  “How? What do we do?” she’d asked.

  “What we should have done all along. We need to go to the police. We need to end this so we can live our lives in peace.”

  She hadn’t argued because she’d known he was right. For so long her only mission had been to get away from her aunt and cousin, to save herself, whether that was sailing to America or marrying Jacob. She was safe now, but countless other women were not, and she couldn’t live with that knowledge any longer.

  And that was how she found herself staring up at the front doors to The Yard.

  “We’re to meet a Detective O’Leary,” Jacob said.

  “O’Leary,” she repeated, her nerves doubling down and causing havoc in her stomach.

  “Armbruster and I have known him for a few years. He’s a decent chap.”

  She stopped to look at him in surprise. “How do you and Lord Armbruster know a Scotland Yard detective?”

  Jacob looked away and shifted from one foot to the other. Charlotte suddenly got an uneasy feeling that he was hiding something from her.

  “Jacob?” Her voice wavered.

  “It’s nothing like that,” he said quickly. “Armbruster and I… We have a hobby. I guess you could call it a hobby.”

  That uneasy feeling in her grew.

  “It started with the woman who killed her husband to be with her lover,” he said.

  She untangled her arm from his and stepped back, her heart hammering. Good Lord, he’d killed someone?

  “No, no,” he said, reaching for her then dropping his hand to his side. “Oh, bugger it. I’m completely saying this wrong. Armbruster and I like to read the daily newspapers and try to solve the crimes. Not—” He held up a hand to stop her from speaking, but she had no words to speak. He was making no sense.

  “We don’t go out and do any sleuthing on our own. Just armchair deliberating, while drinking port at our club. It was more like…” He seemed to consider something. “Like examining the psyche of criminals. Fascinating observations that might lead to clues to why a person does what he does and maybe a few observations that could solve the crimes. I can’t remember exactly when we met O’Leary. We’ve helped him on a few cases. Just ideas and such that he and his colleagues hadn’t thought of.”

  “You’re a detective?” she finally asked, not following this convoluted story.

  “Nothing like that. Just an amateur sleuth and that is being generous.”

  “So that is how you know Detective O’Leary?”

  “Yes. He’s become a friend.”

  She felt marginally better, she guessed. She still wasn’t sure about the amateur sleuth thing, but she would take his word for it.

  He took her arm to lead her up the steps. “Honestly, Charlotte, what Armbruster and I do is nothing serious. Just something to pass the time while we drink port.”

  “It sounds fascinating and a bit frightening—delving into a person’s psyche to figure out why he does what he does.”

  “It’s nothing scientific. Just observations we have from time to time. Like how you and I discussed Edmund.”

  They were now at the front doors, and she hesitated.

  “This is for the best,” Jacob said, as if sensing her nervousness. “We need to move on with our lives without the shadow of Edmund.”

  “I just didn’t realize how nervous it would make me.”

  They made their way into the building and told the man at the front desk that they had an appointment with Detective O’Leary. Wordlessly he pointed them in the right dir
ection. The building was teeming with the blue-coated, tall-hatted men who comprised the London police department. None of them gave Charlotte or Jacob a second look as they made their way down the halls and stairwells to the detectives.

  Detective O’Leary was a smiling man with red hair, freckles, and thick forearms. His eyelashes were so light as to be almost nonexistent. He shook hands with Jacob, and they talked for a few moments about some case that Armbruster and Jacob had helped him with.

  “I would like you to meet my wife, Lady Ashland.”

  Charlotte started at her title. Good Lord, in such a short time she had gone from a vagrant to a countess. She would laugh if the situation weren’t so serious.

  Detective O’Leary nodded to her. “My lady. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective.”

  They sat, and O’Leary folded his hands on the top of his desk and smiled at them. “I’ll admit that I’m curious about this meeting.”

  “We have what we think might be some information on the killing of the women that are being pulled out of the river,” Jacob said.

  O’Leary’s smile faded. “I see. Well, that certainly is a surprise. What sort of information do you have?”

  Jacob looked at Charlotte, and she realized it would be best if she told the story herself. She began with the doll, then the cats, and finally, her suspicion that her cousin Edmund was the killer.

  O’Leary sat through the entire telling of the story silently, hands still folded on his desk. He’d not made one note nor asked one question.

  “You believe your cousin is murdering these women?” There was no inflection in his voice, and she couldn’t tell if he believed her or not.

  “Yes,” she said, decisively. In the retelling she was more convinced than ever that Edmund was guilty and even more convinced that she was doing the right thing.

  Halfway into the story Jacob had covered her hand with his, and he now squeezed it, a silent show of solidarity and comfort that she desperately needed.