The prosecutor walked toward Julian with some papers in his hand. “You hated the earl, didn’t you, sir? You wished him dead, in fact. This document is in your hand.
In it you plan Glasbury’s death. There are several of these, written over the years. Let me read them for you.”
He read them. They sounded like diary entries. In each one Julian revealed his darker passions and anger, and described the earl’s death at his hand.
The courtroom hushed. Pen’s heart pounded. Julian remained expressionless. She glanced at the faces in the gallery and saw how they looked at him. They saw a sinister man, not a good and quiet one.
Even her friends appeared astonished by the storm that thundered within the words being read. Laclere in particular turned ashen-faced, as if he knew that those pages would seal Julian’s fate.
Satisfied with the effect he had produced, the prosecutor left the stage.
Knightridge rose with a deep frown. He reached out his hand for the pages and the prosecutor gave them over.
“They are dated. The dates’ ink appears the same as that of the prose, so we can assume they were dated when written. Two of these are ten years old, and a third five years. And wait, this one here is—excuse me, it is hard to read—it looks like it was the first, and was written fifteen years ago.” He struck a dramatic pose with his hands on his hips. “Sir, for a man bent on murder, you damn well take your time getting around to it.”
Laughter broke out.
Even Julian smiled. “Perhaps I do not plot as well as I plod.”
The audience roared.
“Indeed, perhaps you do not. I suggest that you do not plot at all.” He waved the pages and his voice boomed. “These are the words of a man incensed. Furious. I suggest that they are the outpourings of a soul that was tortured by a secret that burned, and the release of these writings was all that the bonds of honor permitted you. Indeed, sir, I do not think you have told this jury all there is to know about this case.”
Julian said nothing.
“Honor still binds you. I put some questions to you, however, that do not require any dishonor, I assure you. You have served these years as the solicitor of the Viscount Laclere’s family, have you not?”
“Yes.”
“When the Countess of Glasbury separated from her husband, did she seek you out for your advice?”
Julian said nothing.
“I think we can assume she did. I think we can also assume that she confided why she wanted to take such a rash step, one that would affect her position and fortune so drastically. I believe we can assume, sir, that all these years you knew the particulars of her marriage in ways no one else does.”
A buzz moved like a swell through the crowd. Pen felt the glances her way. Knightridge was lying, of course. The particulars were now well known, and he was aware of it.
Julian was not, however. He glared at Knightridge. “You assume a lot.”
“Perhaps I do. Maybe the mere knowledge of a good woman’s mistreatment is not enough to account for these … fantasies regarding his death.”
With a display of deep thoughtfulness, he strolled in front of the jury. He passed near the prosecutor.
He paused and cocked his head. “I say, that is quite a pile you have there. Are all of those papers Mr. Hampton’s? More plots?”
To his adversary’s consternation, Knightridge plucked a large handful away and retreated. With great flourish he opened each one and scanned it. “Oh, my … well, well … I think the jury needs to be aware of these. In the interest of justice, I regret to say they should be read. They speak to Mr. Hampton’s character, and perhaps even his intentions.”
“What does he have there?” Sophia whispered.
“I have no idea,” Pen replied.
“If he regrets they should be read, why not ignore them instead? He is supposed to be helping.”
Knightridge held one page high, at arm’s length, ready to start.
“Let me see, this letter is dated the sixteenth of April, 1816. You were new to law then, I believe. Just out of your two years at university, I would guess. Since this was in your possession, I assume it was never sent.” He cleared his throat and began reading. “ ‘My incomparable beloved…’”
It was a letter. A love letter. A beautiful, sweet letter of gentle longing, written by a young man to a woman he could not have.
Pen could not take her eyes off Julian as she heard it. She had no trouble picturing him back then, full of promise. She could hear him saying these words, and saw him sitting at a desk as he wrote them.
She had no idea he had harbored a secret love back then. She wondered if the girl had hurt him badly. Perhaps that was why he had never married.
Knightridge finished. He looked at Julian. Julian looked away. Pen’s heart twisted. How hard this must be for such a private person.
Knightridge opened another paper. The chamber had fallen so quiet that the crackle of the paper could be heard. “The twenty-first of January, 1822. ‘My incomparable beloved…’”
It was another love letter. Pen listened to the lyrical words. This letter was a little bitter.
Partway through, her heart skipped. A quiet ringing entered her ears. Her gaze sharpened in surprise.
One line had jumped out at her. One reference. Unlike the legendary woman who bore your name, your husband is no Odysseus, deserving of a wife’s undying loyalty.
A small commotion trembled through the chamber as a few others recognized the allusion.
The wife of the ancient Greek hero Odysseus was named Penelope.
The letter was written to her.
She could only stare at Julian in amazement. As if feeling her attention, he turned his gaze directly on her.
Knightridge read on and on. More letters. Poems. Expressions of unquenched desire and unrequited love. There were verses that praised her as perfect and beautiful and full of grace. Others seethed with the fury of a man imprisoned by a hopeless devotion.
The world fell away, became hazy and distant. She vaguely heard the reactions around her. She dimly grew aware that everyone had figured out who the woman was.
She did not care, could not care. Julian just looked at her, nowhere else. Knightridge continued reading, but it was as if Julian spoke the words himself, and looked in her eyes as he revealed the hidden depths of his heart to her.
chapter 26
I was magnificent, if I do say so myself.” Knightridge preened as he pushed the door closed and rested his weight against it, blocking out the guards waiting to take Julian back to his cell.
Julian folded his arms and kept his distance. If this gaol under the courtroom had a window, he would smash it. “Did you have to read all of them?”
“Of course. The men were enthralled. The women were weeping. You heard the roar when the judge tried to interrupt. Besides, by reading them all I have delayed the completion of the trial until morning.”
“The prosecutor had the courtesy not to read out those papers, even though it would support his argument against me by showing a stronger motive. It took my counsel to lay down that evidence.”
“You know very well that criminal trials are not only about the law. They are theatrical shows. There is just a chance that I will save your neck despite your miserable performance as the leading man in this one. Couldn’t you have smiled more?”
“All you did was embarrass her.”
“She did not look embarrassed to me. Laclere is bringing her here and you can ask her yourself, if I can hold off the guards that long.”
Julian was not sure that he wanted to ask her anything. He had no idea what he could say. She had not actually looked embarrassed, just thoroughly stunned.
“Why did you want the trial to continue tomorrow?”
“Use your imagination for something besides love poetry—it was very well written, by the way; I am impressed—I want the word to spread. I want the city to hear of it. The ladies and peers, the merchants and their daught
ers, the scullery maids and beggars. If I am right, and I am rarely wrong, tomorrow the crowds will be shouting for your release.”
“Wonderful. When I hang the city will drink to me, then go about its business.”
“Do not be so sure. About the hanging, that is. Between the evidence of your long, chaste love and protection, and the common knowledge now of how Glasbury mistreated her, I expect—”
“What?”
Knightridge stopped with his mouth open. He flashed a cautious smile. “Um, yes, you do not know about that yet. I would have told you, but—”
“Enlighten me.”
“It is all around. The business with Glasbury.”
“The facts of her marriage, you mean. Now I understand why you pointedly alluded to that in the trial. If
I am spared the noose over Glasbury, I may hang for killing you. ”
“It was her idea, I swear it. Hers. I did not guess how damning to Glasbury the story would be when she asked me if it would help to let the truth be known. I was astonished when the particulars finally reached my own ears. If you want to yell at someone for those revelations, yell at her, not me.”
“It appears you are not sorry she did it.”
“It changes everything, Hampton. You walked into prison a scoundrel, but between that and those papers, you are now a knight in armor. Hell, yes, I am glad she spoke of it. Damned brave of her. Most of the ladies I know would have regretfully let you swing rather than admit to such things.”
Julian closed his eyes and fought to contain his temper. She was still doing it. Still sacrificing herself for others. She had spent years in that marriage rather than let the world know the truth, but now she had spread the story to try and save him.
His mind’s eye saw her in the courtroom while Knightridge read those poems. She had appeared so unbelieving. So amazed. Not unwelcoming, but incredibly perplexed, as if suddenly the world contained colors she had never seen before.
For some reason, that only fed his threatening temper. His love had not been without its resentments and angers, and they now churned in his head.
Voices sounded outside the door. Laclere’s demands came through the oak clearly. The viscount was speaking in his most intimidating tone, one that dripped with the expectation of privilege that his title permitted.
He entered with Pen and Bianca, and closed the door on two skeptical but cowed guards. “They will only remain docile a short while, and Knightridge must remain with us.”
Pen accepted the lack of privacy with equanimity. Julian fought for some accommodation himself. Hell, the papers would be printing those letters tomorrow, so the presence of a few people in this chamber was a small thing in comparison.
Laclere, Bianca, and Knightridge congregated in one corner of the chamber and pretended to chat. Julian faced Pen.
She no longer appeared shocked or perplexed. A melting warmth entered her eyes. She came over and took one of his hands between her small, soft palms.
She lifted his hand and kissed it. “Julian, I have never been more honored. No woman has.”
Suddenly no one else was in the chamber. Only Pen, holding his hand with a touch that brought spring’s light and breeze into this space. There could be no storm now. There never could be when she smiled at him.
“I had no idea,” she said. “You never … Of course not. You are an honorable man, so you would not pursue me.”
“I often regretted that honor. I came close to casting it aside. Only the cost to you restrained me.”
“I have been a great fool, my love. Not only in the past, but even in recent weeks. You told me in Hampstead, and I did not even understand what you were really saying.”
“I did not expect you to understand. I just needed to say it before we parted.”
She looked up at him with deeply burning lights in her eyes. Her expression provoked every memory he had of seeing her face. She was so beautiful that his heart wanted to burst.
He drew her into his arms. She rested against him, fitting perfectly and comfortably.
“I sat there while Mr. Knightridge read your papers, seeing you through the years, remembering the ways you protected me. I was so stupid, Julian. So blind. Please tell me that I have not wasted the best of your love. Some of the letters—you sounded so angry, close to hating me. I could not blame you if—”
He tipped her head up and kissed her. “I never hated you. My anger was never with you, but with the little hell my heart had put me in. The anger always passed. I never regretted loving you. If I had gone to my grave never kissing you or touching you, I still would not have thought it a wasted love.”
She looked up at his reference to the grave. A sadness passed over her expression, but one of determination quickly banished it. “I am very glad that you did kiss me. You will again, often. I am sure of this in my heart.”
He kissed her again. A long, sweet kiss. Right now, holding her, he believed there would be many more embraces. The resplendent emotions she stirred in him obscured any danger.
A loud cough broke through the peace. Pen turned her head and Julian looked up. A fist was pounding on the door. Laclere approached, looking apologetic.
He and the others had heard everything, of course. Their bland expressions said they had. Julian did not care.
He released Pen and gently set her away from him. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he almost pulled her back. Laclere waited.
“I love you with all my heart, Julian,” Pen whispered. Julian handed her over to her brother. “Remember that my love is with you, darling, even when I am not.”
My love is with you, even when I am not. Pen heard those words all the way to her house. They echoed in the library while Charlotte sat with her, trying to fill the evening with distracting talk.
She barely heard her sister. She kept seeing Julian while he said that today. There had been sadness in his eyes, as if he expected she would have only his love, and not him, in the future.
Julian did not expect to ever hold her again.
That was unthinkable. She could not allow it to happen.
She rose from the sofa. “Charlotte, I am grateful that you are keeping watch over me, but I must ask you to leave. I need to go out.”
“You are in full mourning.”
“I am not going to a party. I am going to Glasbury’s house. Until his nephew arrives from Jamaica, it is still my home in the law.”
“Pen, it will only stir bad memories if you go there. What can you hope to achieve?”
“I want to see that dressing room. I will talk to the servants.”
“Darling, Mr. Knightridge spoke with them. They could offer no information that would aid Julian. Knightridge is a conceited, arrogant—well, he is what he is, but I do not doubt he obtained whatever could be gained from such inquiries.”
“There may be a difference between inquiries made by him and by me. I am the Countess of Glasbury. For years I refused to think of myself as such, but for a while longer maybe I should embrace the position. If I am the countess, right now they are still my servants.”
“If you are determined to do this, I am coming with you. I will not have you near that toad’s ghost while you are alone.”
chapter 27
Pen’s carriage stopped in front of the house on Grosvenor Square. She peered through the night at its facade.
She had not set foot on this property since she left Glasbury. She had been twenty-one then.
“When I left, it was from this house,” she said to Charlotte. “The earl watched me go. He permitted me to take only the personal property that I had brought to the marriage, nothing else. No money. Not the jewels he had given me, nor the dresses he had bought.”
“He wanted you to suffer. He thought you would be bought off in time.”
“I would have left with the clothes on my back, if necessary. I did not want anything he had given me, either. He never understood that.”
The footman handed them down. Pen walked up to the
door. She turned and relived the moment she had stepped out this door all those years ago.
It had been raining, but the sun had suddenly shone in her heart. A heady euphoria had spilled from her soul when she left the shadow of this place.
She had almost run to the carriage that would take her to Laclere Park. Julian had been standing there, waiting to escort her so he could explain to her brothers what little could be told about her shocking decision.
“We were both so young then. Julian took a big risk standing against Glasbury for me,” she said. “I did not realize how much was at stake.”
Charlotte rang the bell pull by the door.
A bewigged and liveried black servant opened the door. Pen recognized him. When he stepped back and bowed, it was clear he recognized her, too.
“Caesar, it is good to see you,” she said, as she entered the reception hall. Caesar was one of the servants Glasbury had brought over from his plantation in Jamaica. He and his brother Marcus had served as footmen for years, following the earl from property to property.
“Thank you, madame.” He offered his hands to take her and Charlotte’s cloaks.
“Is it known yet when the new earl will return to England?”
“We have no word so far.”
Caesar spoke with the same formality he had always used. His face showed no expression, and his eyes revealed nothing. The enigmatic blandness was not unusual for servants, but in Caesar and the other islanders it had always been very severe and closed, as if they knew the eyes were windows to the soul and they deliberately kept their panes covered with film.
“I will be here a few hours,” Pen explained. “Before I leave,
I will want to talk to you further. Right now, tell me who else is here whom I know. Your brother?”
“My brother took another situation in the city. Other than me, I think that only Cook is from your time with us.”
“Julia? She is here now?”
“Down below, madame. She moved here from Wiltshire some years ago, when the earl began spending more time in the city.”
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