Charles remembered that incident. He’d been impatient to have the nuptials said. He’d thought she was having doubts and was going to beg off and hadn’t wanted to give her the chance. “You should have insisted,” he said, knowing that was unfair.
“I wish I had. Oh, if only I had.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes again and he was afraid she’d begin crying at any moment. He took a tight rein on his rising anger. “That is your only excuse? That people were waiting and I shook my head?”
She looked up at him again and he was surprised at the depth of despair in her eyes. “And...and that I thought I’d be safe with you. You made me feel...less alone.”
He’d hoped to hear those words again—that she loved him and always had. He could forgive her anything for the sake of that. “But if you knew then, Georgiana, why are you crying only now?”
“Shame, Charles, for what I’ve brought to your door. I am suspected of murder and will be arrested soon. Hathaway went to the Home Office and accused me. And, somehow, I’ve... I am connected to the man who is trying to kill you. Oh!” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, ravaging her face with grief or guilt, he couldn’t tell which.
A cold feeling settled in his heart. He had been shunning the thought from the moment it had entered his mind this morning. Between Gibbons’s mysterious accusations and Clark’s revelations, he’d been fighting the suspicion. He’d denied it in his mind, refused to believe it, sought for other answers.
And still, he had to ask. “Connected how, Georgiana?”
“No, Charles. No...”
“Tell me.”
“I cannot say the words.”
Then he would say them for her. “He is your father.”
She gagged and he feared for a moment that she would vomit.
And still he could not relent. He stood, needing to put distance between them. Needing to harden himself against her pain. “Admit it.”
She gasped for air, clearly fighting her hysteria. “Charles...”
“Damn it, Georgiana!”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, he says he is my father.”
He took two more steps away from her. “When did you know?”
“I wonder if I always knew. When I think back, I remember his face in my village, or on the street when I came to London. There was always a shadow behind me. A feeling I could not dispel.”
Charles could scarcely comprehend her admission. Had she married him knowing who she was? Had she deceived him deliberately? “When did you know?” he asked again.
“He told me yesterday.”
After the wedding. Thank God for that much. “You met with him?”
“He waited in the garden.”
He recalled Finn’s remark that he’d found her crying in the garden. And then he’d gone upstairs and made love to her. He’d lain with her, touching her, knowing her, loving her in ways too intimate to speak of. And all the while, she’d known she was Gibbons’s daughter.
“He means to kill you, Charles. ‘Put you out of the way,’ he said.”
Nothing new there, at least. There was only one last question he had to ask.
“Were you his accomplice, Georgiana? Were you helping him?”
She looked up from her knees, her eyes wide with horror, and then reached for the whiskey without saying a word. The crystal stopper shattered on the stone hearth as she knocked it off and lifted the decanter to her lips without bothering to fill a glass.
God, how he wished he could join her. Sit with her before the fire, drinking until the memories fell away, until it no longer mattered that she was a Gibbons by birth, but he doubted there was enough liquor in the world to accomplish that. All he knew for certain was that he’d go mad if he stayed in this room a moment more. That he’d surely say or do something he would regret tomorrow.
He turned and walked away, closing the door softly behind him.
* * *
It was late afternoon before Charles nodded at Wycliffe’s man loitering across the street and looked at the folded paper again, confirming the address Wycliffe had given him. The tenement looked respectable enough for all that it was in a declining neighborhood. He opened the door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The unwholesome stench of cabbage and spoiled meat followed him. Halfway down the passageway he found the number he was looking for. He knocked and waited a moment.
A door opened across the way and a man peeked out. “Real popular man, that Hathaway. Keep tellin’ folks he ain’t in.”
The door closed again and Charles turned back to Hathaway’s room. He tried the lock with no luck. Odd, how no one had seen Hathaway for several days. If Wycliffe’s men hadn’t found him, no one could.
He was halfway down the stairs when he realized the odor was stronger upstairs. He spun around and went back, removing a pick from his pocket. The lock was easily forced and Charles stepped through with a glance over his shoulder to be certain he hadn’t been seen.
The smell was overwhelming now and recognizable. Decaying flesh. He threw the only window open and breathed deeply before turning back to the inside.
In a darkened corner, he saw the crumpled form. Hathaway by the length and breadth of him and by his fastidiously polished shoes. No wonder no one had seen him. Charles held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth as he inspected the bloated body. He’d been dead for several days judging by the number of flies, the state of the body and the fact that death rigor had come and gone. Probably killed after his visit to the Home Office.
A knife had made a single slice across his throat. Dried blood had stiffened the man’s dark coat. A knife. Altogether too many coincidences. Dick Gibbons, then. But why? For Georgiana’s sake? In retaliation for reporting her to the Home Office? Just because he felt like it? Or had they been in collusion and argued?
He searched Hathaway and found only a crumpled scrap of paper in one corner of his waistcoat pocket. No coins, no banknotes, nothing of value whatsoever. Gibbons, if it had been Gibbons, had taken everything. He smoothed the wad of paper and read an address in Whitechapel. An address within the area Wycliffe’s men had narrowed to Gibbons’s crib.
He quickly searched the rest of the room, but found nothing useful. It appeared that Gibbons had come to see Hathaway, killed him for some as yet unknown reason, had taken anything of value, and left him to rot. He must have missed the little slip of paper with directions to his room.
A grim smile found its way to his lips. No time to waste if he was to catch Gibbons this time.
He closed Hathaway’s door behind him and hurried back down the stairs and across the street. He handed the man the paper he’d taken from Hathaway’s pocket and turned toward Whitechapel. “Hathaway is dead. Give that to Wycliffe at once. Tell him to meet me there.”
* * *
Charles knew it had been too much to hope for to find Dick Gibbons at home. He kept his disappointment in check and decided that this could be his only opportunity to search for any proof of the Gibbons brothers’ complicity in a myriad of crimes. He stepped inside.
Whether it was the oppressive atmosphere of the room or something more, a warning tingle spiraled up his spine. Something felt wrong. Something that nagged at the back of his mind. He would wait for Wycliffe, but there was no time to waste. A candle stub waited on a shelf just inside the door and he found the tinderbox to light it.
The single room in the back stables of a squalid public house gave testament to the Gibbons tolerance for filth. Despite the lock he’d had to pick to gain entrance, there looked to be nothing worth stealing. As he stood in the open doorway, Charles wished he had a shovel. Still, knowing that Gibbons could come back at any minute, he decided not to wait for Wycliffe’s arrival.
The room was small and airless. No windows offered light or ventilation. Cobwebs and rat droppings were everywhere. He’d have likened it to a fortress, but there was no watchtower. Not even a peephole. A searching glance around the room gave him no clue where he might start his hunt.<
br />
He moved the torn blankets covering a single pallet and found only more blankets. He lifted the lot with the toe of his boot to find that there was no bed beneath, just a pile of discarded blankets too worn to be mended. He’d have felt sorry for anyone else, but he knew full well that the Gibbons brothers had extorted fortunes and charged exorbitant rates for their services, be they assassinations or pickpocketing. Where that money had gone was a subject of endless speculation by the Home Office.
A pile of objects in one corner offered a place to start his search. Old playbills and torn posters had been smoothed and stacked, but for what purpose? Charles could not imagine. Buttons of the sort that might have been lost on the cobbles filled an old glass jar. Scraps of ribbon, empty bobbins and brushes missing half their bristles were in a single pile, as if kicked aside.
He continued around the perimeter, reasoning that not even Dick Gibbons would leave anything incriminating or that could be of value in the open center of a room. He touched as little as possible, moving things aside with his boot.
A few moments later, Wycliffe appeared in the doorway, his tall frame nearly blocking any light. “What a bloody mess,” he said. “Shall I call in help?”
Charles shook his head. “I am beginning to wonder if we will find anything here.”
Wycliffe tilted his head toward a tin plate of stale bread and overripe fruit. “Looks like supper. Think he’s coming back?”
“Not if he sees us here.”
“A search of this place will take us hours. Richardson is outside, keeping watch. He will stay and send word when Gibbons returns.”
A sensible plan. Charles nodded and slid his boot under another rag pile. The scrape of his sole against a wooden plank invited closer inspection. He knelt and moved the rags, Wycliffe peering over his shoulder. The board was level with the dirt floor, as if it had been set in a hole. He removed the pick from his pocket and pried one edge up. Yes, there was a hole beneath.
He flipped the board over and peered into the hole. A metal box with a hinged lid appeared. Rather than open the lid, he lifted the entire box out and placed it on the floor. Wycliffe knelt beside him and flipped the lid back.
The glitter of gold flashed in the candlelight. So this was the Gibbons treasure trove. There were not many pieces, but why had they kept these when they were wont to sell everything they stole within a day of two of the theft? Were these fresh acquisitions? Had Dick not had time to dispose of them?
Wycliffe pulled out a chain, from which a dainty oval amethyst dangled, and held it to the light. This was no tawdry imitation, but the living model of Clark’s sketch of Lady Caroline’s stolen necklace. There, too, was the Scottish thistle brooch and pearl earrings. If he had needed confirmation that the Gibbons brothers had been the thieves who robbed Lady Caroline’s coach, he had it now. There were other items, too. A tiny ring meant for a child, a dainty garnet necklace, an opal ring and a bracelet of wrought gold. And, most damning of all, a locket with a miniature portrait of a younger Georgiana.
“These were Lady Caroline’s,” he said, pointing to the first items. “The jewels she wore the night she was robbed.”
Another warning chill invaded Charles’s vitals as he stood. After all the time he’d spent chasing Gibbons, this was too easy. Too convenient. How had Gibbons missed the paper with his address when he’d stolen everything else of value from Hathaway’s room? Unless he’d left it there? He stepped outside and glanced around. Was it a trap?
Wycliffe gave him a questioning look, as if he’d felt it, too—this nameless suspicion.
No. Not a trap. A diversion. A red herring meant to keep them occupied. The hair on the back of Charles’s neck stood on end, and a deep dread filled him. “Georgiana,” he whispered.
Chapter Twenty
Knowing she could never get drunk enough to drown the facts of her birth or even dull the memory of Charles’s face when she admitted the truth, Georgiana gave up the attempt. Darkness had fallen by the time she left the library and went up to her room. She found a valise in her dressing room and put it on her bed.
She only needed to pack a few things. She could send for the rest later. The journey home would not take that long. Charles could handle the details of the annulment. There shouldn’t be too much of a scandal since they’d never even formally announced their engagement. Heaven knew he had grounds enough. Fraud. He hadn’t known who she really was. Though she hadn’t known she was a Gibbons at the time of the nuptials, she had known she was illegitimate—Lady Caroline’s illegitimate daughter.
And, should the authorities wish to arrest her for her husbands’ deaths, they would know where to find her. Even that eventuality did not seem to matter now. Odd, how only days ago her life had been quiet and ordinary, and now everything was turned upside down.
Had she dealt so much with death that it had lost its power to horrify her? Was she simply numb from the revelations of the past few days? Or had something died inside her with the look on Charles’s face when he realized who she was? Some spark of humanity that she would never be able to reclaim? No, she would never be the same. Even now the pain of losing him again was almost more than she could bear.
She opened her bureau drawer and removed a nightgown and robe, as well as some stockings and handkerchiefs. A breeze wafted from the open window and brushed a stray curl across her cheek. She shivered and tucked the curl behind her ear.
“Oh, there’s a good girl. You knowed I was comin’ fer you, eh?”
Georgiana jumped, her heart pounding wildly. Dick Gibbons stepped from behind the draperies and grinned. Her hand came up to cover her heart and she was so frightened that she could not speak.
“Madam? You want dinner?”
She spun to look at the locked door in horror, then back to Gibbons, who had drawn a knife and was scowling. She knew with cold certainty that he would kill Clara if she entered the room. And that he was completely unhinged.
“No, Clara. I am not hungry. I do not wish to be disturbed the rest of the night, please.”
“You need help undressing, madam?”
“I can manage. Good night, Clara.”
Gibbons nodded approval.
If only she could think of a way to summon Finn! When the maid’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Gibbons gestured with the wicked-looking blade, light flashing from the razor-sharp edge. “Quick thinkin’, Georgie gal. I knew you was smart.”
She noted the faint sound of a door opening and closing somewhere below. Finn? Charles? She had to keep Gibbons talking. Distracted from the sounds of the house. “Where are you...where are we going?” she asked as she placed her little stack of clothes in the valise, knowing her only chance of survival lay in indulging him.
“Why, it don’t matter. Maybe back to that big house in Kent. Maybe not. First we gets you away and then I can kill Hunter.”
She noted the gleam of madness in his eyes and suddenly it was all clear. “You killed Allenby, didn’t you?”
Gibbons merely gave her that inane grin.
“And Mr. Huffington?”
“Not with my own hands, but they wasn’t good enough fer you, Georgie.”
She sank to the bed, feeling light-headed with shock. “And...and Adam Booth?”
“I was aimin’ fer Hunter that night, but Booth stepped in his way. Artie took the second shot and hit Hunter. Shoulda killed him, though.”
“Artie?” If she could keep him talking, perhaps Finn would come to check on her.
“My brother. Yer other pa.”
He’d made some sort of reference to that before. “I don’t understand. My other father?”
“Aye. We don’t know what one of us sired you. We both had her that night. Yer ma was the only fancy lady we ever got at. Cut ’er up good, we did, so she couldn’t be with anyone else. We kept watch on ’er and found out she was breedin’. We followed ’er to Devon where the nuns took care of ’er. If you’da been a boy, we’da stole you away. But you was only a girl,
so we didn’t bother. The old lord took you away when you was born, though, and we thought he mighta drowned you or left you in a ditch. Then she fetched you home.”
Her stomach cramped and she feared she was going to be sick. She could not even imagine Caroline’s agony. Nor could she comprehend that she would never know which monster sired her.
But she could not think about that now. She had to stall, to keep him talking until she could think of some way out of this mess. “I remember seeing you in the village.”
“Aye. We come to keep an eye on you every now an’ then. When we saw how pretty you was, that’s when we started makin’ plans.”
“What sort of plans?”
He chuckled to himself. “Yer pretty enough to catch a lord. Maybe a duke. We was gonna have you rise in your station, gal. Make the Gibbons clan high-flyin’ dandies. Have Gibbons blood minglin’ with royalty.”
Good heavens! He was really quite mad. So mad that he could not see the flaws in his plan. No peer would ever marry without being certain of his wife’s lineage. Preserving the integrity of the title was too important. Caroline had understood that, and had been careful to marry her to country squires where such a secret could be kept. She’d even thought Charles too dangerously close to the peerage. Dare she tell Mr. Gibbons that? Would he dispose of her, too, if he thought she was of no use?
“Do you still think that is possible?”
“Why not? By the time yer mournin’ is done fer Hunter, we’ll come back to town and hunt you up a proper lord. You’ll marry who I tells you to this time.”
“What if none of them want me?”
“Clever gal like you? You’ll know how to bring ’em to heel. Why, I warrant you’ve learned a few tricks from Hunter.”
Nausea churned in her stomach at the thought of doing any of those things with anyone but Charles. “And if I can’t...bring them to heel?”
He scowled at her and brandished his knife. “You damn well better, chit. Everything we done since that day we saw you, we done fer you. You owe us and yer no use to me if you don’t do as I tell you. Now get packin’.”
A Daring Liaison Page 23