by Kelly Boyce
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out but a strangled sound she didn’t recognize as her own voice.
Nicholas let out a long breath. “We put a stop to it, though it took some doing. Marcus was disinclined to stop. When we asked him what it was about, he refused to answer, then he mounted up and left. We thought it best to let him go and calm himself and we still had Walkerton to contend with. We offered to escort him back to the house to see to his injuries, but he refused so we left. We still needed to find Lady Franklyn and the others. Shortly after our departure, we heard a shot and doubled back. When we arrived, Marcus stood over Walkerton’s body.”
Fear, swift and rampant, swept through Rebecca until she shook from head to toe. “Did he say what happened?”
Nicholas shook his head. “No. He still hasn’t, other than to indicate they had fought earlier over a personal matter of which he would not divulge and then he left. The latter of which Spence, Ben and I confirmed.”
Had this been her fault? Had Lord Walkerton’s attempts of earlier that morning set Marcus on a course of violence that caused the earl his life? She did not doubt for a moment Marcus would protect her, but to kill a man after the fact, in cold blood? It didn’t sit right. The Marcus she knew would not do such a thing.
“I need to see him.”
“You cannot right now. The constable—”
“Hang the constable!” The words shot out of her in a fury and she squeezed her brother’s hands where they held hers. “Please, Nicholas. I must speak with him immediately. I will force myself into the room and carry on with high hysterics if that is what it takes.”
“When did I become inundated with a household of strong-willed women?” He muttered. He looked up, addressing the ceiling before returning his gaze to her. “Let me see what I can do.”
Several long moments later, Marcus appeared in the doorway of the receiving room and looked down the hall to where she sat. She stood, her hands clasped against her belly to stop them from shaking. He hesitated a moment then slowly made his way toward her, stopping just out of reach. A haunted expression cut into the angles and shadows of his face. That, above all else, scared her the most.
She rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, the need to touch him overwhelming, but his lips were cold and unmoving, refusing the solace she tried to offer. She touched his face, wishing there was some way she could erase the trouble weighing heavy on his brow. “I was so worried when I heard the news. Are you hurt? What happened?”
He pulled her hands away and took a step back, releasing her.
“Walkerton is dead,” he said, his voice flat, unemotional.
“I know.” She shook her head, confused. He pulled away, not just physically, but emotionally. He had crawled into that place inside of him she had seen him retreat to from time to time when he wished to be alone. She wanted to grab hold of him and pull him back, but it was too late. He’d already left her.
She glanced down and blinked away the tears that sparked in her eyes. His knuckles were split and swollen, the telltale signs of his altercation with Walkerton in clear view.
“They think I did it.”
She nodded but refrained from asking if it was true. It couldn’t be. Could it? She took a step forward, needing him to erase any hint of doubt weaseling its way into her heart, but Marcus took a step back and refused her outstretched hand with a hard shake of his head. “No.”
“Marcus, I—”
He held up a hand, interrupting her. Just as well. What could she possibly say to make this situation better? What witness could she bear to make the constable believe Marcus would never commit such a crime?
“You should go,” he said and the words had a disturbing finality to them, as if he were telling her to go away for good, and not just for now.
“Will you come to me later?”
He looked at her a long time and the truth of his expression, its remoteness, the distance he kept between them, the deadness of his voice, sunk in with cold certainty. He would not come.
Before she could say anything else, the constable appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Bowen? We still have more questions, sir, if you please.”
Marcus nodded though did not glance in the other man’s direction, his gaze riveted on her. “I will not have you involved in this. Go.”
And with that, he turned and strode back to the receiving room. The constable gave her a questioning look before following and shutting the doors behind him, leaving Rebecca alone.
The sound of her heartbeat echoed up and down the empty hallway. After a time, she forced her feet to move and returned upstairs to find Mother and the others. Surely, something could be done.
* * *
Marcus’s head pounded. Nicholas had cut short the constable’s litany of questions, insisting he had reached the point of repetitive madness searching for answers none of them had to give. Once the man left, Marcus retired alone to the library, hoping the quiet calm of the room would quell his unease that any luck he’d possessed had just run out.
He had not killed Walkerton and therefore, logic dictated, he could not be held responsible for his death. But logic did not always factor into such matters and he could not deny the events preceding Walkerton’s death made him look remarkably guilty. He had beaten the earl senseless and moments later he’d been shot dead with his own rifle. With no one to provide witness or state otherwise, his innocence proved a bit of a moot point. The constable was hungry to prove his worth by finding a perpetrator for the crime.
He clenched and released his hand, the cuts that riddled his knuckles pulled and cracked from the effort. His gloves had proven inadequate protection from the blows he’d visited upon Walkerton. He stared at them and marveled at the fact that only this morning these same hands had touched the woman he loved, caressed her soft skin, sunk deep into her glorious mane of thick midnight hair, traced the line of her lips before kissing her deeply until every cell in his body rejoiced.
This morning he had imagined a future bright and clear. Tonight, he watched as that future crumbled to rubble at his feet.
Walking away from Rebecca had killed him. When she’d thrown her arms around him, he’d wanted nothing else but to lose himself in her embrace, give in to her kiss, but he couldn’t. He refused to make any more promises he couldn’t keep. Things were bound to get uglier before they got better. If they got better. The constable was a most ambitious man. To have a peer of the realm murdered on his watch would not go unanswered.
That an innocent man might hang for the crime hardly mattered. Marcus suspected that was the real reason Nicholas gave the man the boot. He saw it too and while he could not prevent the inevitability, he could delay it as long as possible.
But not forever.
Regardless, Marcus would not drag Rebecca down with him. She did not deserve this. He did not have the protection of the House of Lords behind him. He was but a common man in the eyes of the law. If found guilty, he would hang.
He took a sip of brandy, his third. The liquid burned his throat but failed to reach beyond that, nor did the fire he’d kindled in the hearth. He’d gone numb. Against the truth of who he was; against what had happened to his mother. Against the loss of Rebecca and the future they’d dreamed of.
He downed what remained in the glass and let his head fall into his hands.
In life, Walkerton had destroyed his mother’s life. In death, it seemed, he meant to destroy Marcus’s as well.
“You look like hell.”
He started, lost in thought, and glanced up to find Spence had entered the room. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Did you come here to tell me that?”
“No, I came here to say it’s been nice knowing you and that I shall remember our years together fondly.”
Marcus pulled his head out of his hands and stared at his friend. No. His cousin. He shook his head then regretted the action as brandy swam around h
is brain.
“You think he won’t kill you?”
“The constable?”
“No, Nick.” Spence lifted his eyebrows and his pale blue eyes registered both worry and amusement. He picked up the empty brandy snifter. “Sweet Judas, man. How much have you had to drink?”
“Too much.” And not enough. Walkerton was dead. Lady Lilith Kingsley was his mother. He was not only a bastard, but also the result of a heinous violence enacted against an innocent. To top things off, the future he had envisioned with the woman he loved was no longer a possibility. Likely there wasn’t enough brandy in the world to rectify any of that.
“Well, Rebecca told Nick you and she—that you—” Spence made a face and stared at the row of books on the shelf nearby as if one of them contained the word he searched for.
Marcus’s heart stuttered in his chest. “That we what?” He waited for Spence to answer.
Spence cleared his throat and rolled his hand in the air. “You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re going to make me say it? That you and she…made love.” He whispered the last part and under different circumstance the idea that a reformed rake such as Spence would whisper such a thing would have proven most comical. But this wasn’t under different circumstances. This was under the worst circumstances possible.
“Shit!”
What had she been thinking? He wanted her removed from this. He’d given her up to keep her out of it. She had no right to dive in headfirst as if this was just another pond he could rescue her from. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even rescue himself.
“If it helps, she claimed the, uh, coupling was completely mutual.” Spence took the seat across from him. “I’m not sure that helped your cause with our dear friend, however.”
Marcus’s stomach lurched and the brandy he’d imbibed threatened to make a return appearance. Spence quickly tucked his boots safely under the chair.
“Where is she?”
“Likely Nick has locked her in her room, which I’m certain she will find a way out of. What were you thinking seducing Rebecca like that?”
“I didn’t seduce her!” He winced and held his head as the shout reverberated the inside of his skull making it ache anew. “And that’s a little pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”
Spence had the decency to appear at least a little chagrined. He had, after all, pretended to be Caelie’s husband while traveling to London without the benefit of a proper chaperone. He was hardly in any position to cast stones.
But it wasn’t Spence he needed to worry about. It was Nick. And Rebecca’s future.
“Perhaps you can claim temporary insanity.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on being insane enough to think you could get away with such a thing. If Nick has his way, the constable will never get a chance to prove a case against you, which I’m sure will disappoint him greatly given the fervor with which he questioned you today.”
“I was not trying to get away with anything. I planned to marry her. I was going to speak to Nick today.”
“And now?”
Marcus shook his head. He had no idea what he would do now, only that he would keep her safe.
“I will fix this.”
“You’re damn right you will.” Nick’s voice burst into the room, his tall stature and ominous claim filling it. Marcus had a strange sense of déjà vu, only the last time this scenario played out, it was Spence sitting in his place and Marcus suggesting calm minds prevail.
He did no such thing now. He deserved Nick’s anger and whatever came with it. He’d jumped the gun, made assumptions and promises that fate made it impossible to keep. Now they would both pay the price for his folly.
“Spence, leave us,” Marcus said, but his friend—cousin—shook his head.
“Afraid not. I may be the only thing standing between you and certain death. For once, I will have to be the voice of reason.”
“I’m doomed,” Marcus muttered. He closed his eyes and mustered his strength, then stood to face Nick.
“This has nothing to do with you. It is between Rebecca and me.”
Nick advanced on Marcus until he was within striking distance. Fury burned in his eyes. “As her protector, this has everything to do with me!”
“If it makes any difference,” Spence offered. “He loves her.”
Nick turned to Spence then back to Marcus. “What?”
“He loves her. Good God, Nick. We covered this already. Marcus loves her. Has loved her. Will love her until the end of time. And your sister obviously shares these feelings. You really shouldn’t be so hard on him. He has enough on his plate right now what with Constable Curly—”
“Hurly,” Nick corrected.
Spence waved his hand. “Whatever. It’s just a matter of time before the man finds enough reason to put a noose around our friend’s neck if we don’t find a way out of this.”
“A walk in the park compared to what I’d like to do to him.” Nick turned back to Marcus. “Bloody hell, Bowen! You are supposed to be the sensible one of us! I trusted you to behave as a gentleman!”
Trust. What a funny word. He’d trusted the Bowens were his parents. He’d trusted Lord and Lady Ellesmere to be truthful. He’d trusted that his life was exactly what it seemed. He trusted it would continue to be so. And yet, as it turned out, none of that had been true.
“When has love ever been sensible?” Spence asked Nick. “Was it sensible when Abigail tried to ruin you? Was it sensible when you nearly married a woman you could barely stand to share air with? Was it sensible when you tried to destroy yourself with guilt? Was it sensible when I fell in love with Caelie and married despite every conviction I had that the institution was better avoided at all costs?”
Nick stared and Marcus both stared at Spence.
“There is no sense to love, Nick.” He threw his arms wide. “I thought by now you would have figured that one out. It didn’t make sense for you, it didn’t make sense for me—and now it doesn’t make sense for Bowen. That’s just the way of it. I’m certain he has every intention of marrying her—”
“I don’t.”
Spence and Nick turned slowly toward him.
“I beg your pardon?” Anger and disbelief sharpened Nick’s words until they were dagger-sharp.
“I can’t marry her. It will ruin her in society. I’m a bastard, all but accused of murdering the man who fathered me. If charged and found guilty I will hang. Is that what you want for her?”
Nick stood silent a moment, then, “No.”
As much as he had expected Nick’s answer, his agreement cut deep—a reinforcement that Marcus’s instinct to leave her was the right one, no matter how much he wished otherwise. He took a deep breath and then his words sealed his future without her.
“I thought we might enlist Glenmor. He’s in need of a bride—the wealthier, the better. He’s a good man and he’ll be good to her. Perhaps if you approached him about brokering a marriage deal between the two.” The words cut like razors against his throat as he spoke them, the idea of her with another man—even one as good as Benedict Laytham—akin to sinking a blade deep into his heart.
Nick shook his head. “She will never agree to it. She loves you. Her whole purpose in telling me what transpired was to ensure you married her. She will not be put off so easily.”
“She will have to be. I will not marry her. I will not drag her into this mess and force upon her the consequences that come with it. Better she turns away now and for good.”
“Gentlemen, might we have a word with Marcus, please? Alone.”
Marcus looked past Spence and Nick to Lord and Lady Ellesmere who stood in the doorway. Though phrased as a request, it had been anything but. Spence pulled at Nick’s sleeve to get him to acquiesce, despite the fact his sister’s future had yet to be settled. As the two filed out of the door, Lord Ellesmere closed it behind them and turned the key, locking them in—or others out. Marcus couldn�
��t determine which.
Lord Ellesmere motioned toward the sofa and chairs near the windows. The curtains had been pulled closed and no noise from evening entertainments broke through the walls. A pall had been cast over the festivities for the time being and most guests had taken to their rooms as night fell and they realized no more new tidbits of information would be forthcoming.
Marcus followed and waited for them to be seated on the sofa before he took the chair next to them.
“It appears you have found yourself in quite the predicament.” Despite the understatement of his claim, the gravity of Lord Ellesmere’s voice told a different story.
“You need not worry over it,” he said. “I will handle this on my own. It will not cast a stain upon you. You and I have severed ties, if you’ll recall.”
Lady Ellesmere gasped as if his words were delivered as an unexpected slight. Perhaps they were. His emotions concerning the elderly couple were twisted and snarled until he could make no sense of what they were. He had never admired a man more than Lord Ellesmere and yet he had kept Marcus’s past from him, willingly. Lady Ellesmere had showered him with love and warmth, rescuing him from a horrid situation but she kept her reasons for doing so locked away from him.
Had they known the struggle their daughter had endured as she wrestled with the decisions she had to make? Did they understand the courage she’d displayed, the love she’d shown him even before his birth when he still grew inside of her? Had they known all of this and held their silence on it?
Lord Ellesmere studied his hands, slightly gnarled around the knuckles where age had taken its toll. “Our ties can never be severed, son.”
Marcus remained silent, unsure if the statement was based on fact or simply feeling. The Kingsleys had always treated him as family. It had been he who had refused to take part, keeping himself separate; afraid it would all be taken away.
“What was it you and Walkerton fought over? The watch?”
“No.” Marcus straightened in his chair. How much of what had happened to her had Lady Lilith revealed to them? Some, all, none? Her journal gave no indication.