by Nicole Byrd
But when the servant opened the door, she heard a rough male voice demand, “Miss Clarissa Fallon live here?”
What in blazes? The servant’s reply was inaudible, but now she heard a thumping of footsteps on the stairs.
Already nervous, Clarissa jumped to her feet. The earl rose, too, and all three looked toward the doorway.
A large man in a rough blue coat stood there. “Miss Clarissa Fallon?”
Bewildered, she nodded.
“I been sent to fetch you to the magistrate.”
Clarissa heard a roaring in her ears. Dimly, she heard Gemma protest, and saw the man shake his head.
“But you must wait for her brother to return!” Gemma argued. “She cannot go unescorted to the magistrate! What is this about?”
“Ain’t supposed to say,” the man repeated stubbornly. “Just to bring her in, as I was tol’.”
Lord Whitby spoke for the first time, and his tone was grim. “Take off your hat, trooper. What do you mean by barging into a lady’s house with such a demand?”
The man snatched off his hat and straightened his shoulders, as if hearing the note of someone used to command. “Beg pardon, miss, I’m sure. And I’m a Bow Street runner these days, sir. Used to be in the army, did you?”
“I did, and runner or not, I cannot countenance this type of behavior,” Whitby said, his voice still stern.
“Only doing what I was tol’,” the man said again, but he shuffled his feet slightly on the Persian rug.
“But—” Gemma protested. “My husband—”
“I was tol’ to bring ’er now,” the runner repeated. He seemed to have only one line to his refrain, Clarissa thought wildly, but he had learned that one too well. “Magistrate goes off at three, ’e does, and I ’ave to ’ave this person back afore then.”
“I will escort Miss Fallon, Lady Gemma,” the earl said. “Do not be alarmed.” Although he spoke to them both, his glance went to Clarissa. “We will sort this out.”
She could only nod, as her voice seemed to have failed her. Still frowning, Gemma sent the footman for their hats and gloves, and they prepared to set out.
Since Lord Whitby’s carriage waited outside, he helped the two women up, directed the runner to sit up front beside the coachman, and took his own seat across from them.
“I cannot think what this is about,” Gemma was saying. “My husband was on his way to see the magistrate after making some inquiries on Bond Street. Could the runner have mistaken his directions?”
“We shall see,” Lord Whitby answered. “Do not distress yourself.” Again, although he answered Gemma, it was Clarissa whom he glanced toward.
Clarissa felt as if the whole world had turned upside down. She muttered to her sister-in-law, “Do you think that Mrs. Craigmore has lodged a complaint against me for accosting her on the street?”
“How would she dare?” Gemma demanded, her tone indignant.
Clarissa pressed her lips together and said nothing else; they would find out soon enough. But if so—oh, how dreadful to have the whole story about the foundling home come out in court, and what on earth would the earl think?
After a query to the runner, the coachman turned the chaise toward Queen Square and the magistrate’s office there.
When they arrived, the earl helped them to step out of the carriage, and the runner jumped down and held open the door. Her heart beating fast, Clarissa clung to Gemma’s hand as they entered the building.
Inside, she saw a long room that seemed overfilled with people. A couple of young gentlemen, looking the worse for wear, bickered with some official. One of the young swells had a black eye, and the other held a bloodstained handkerchief to his swollen nose. They quarreled loudly in inebriated voices with a stout, gray-haired watchman and with each other.
“It was entirely his fault. If he had not swung at me when I was not looking—”
“Hardly the act of a gentleman—”
“If you impugn my honor, I will call you out!”
“Sirs, sirs,” the older man begged. “Please to remember that dueling is against the law, my good sir. Now, then—”
In the corner behind them, another group awaited the magistrate’s pleasure. At the front, two men in rough clothes, their sullen faces unshaven and their eyes vicious, stared out at the rest of the room. Clarissa shivered and looked away.
The only other woman in the room was a female dressed in an overly bright gown with a very low-cut neckline, and she, too, seemed under the influence of drink. She was swearing briskly at one of the runners using language that, had Clarissa had time to consider the matter, she was sure should have caused a delicately reared maiden to blush. However, in her time belowstairs, Clarissa had heard most of it before, and she paid little heed. Gemma frowned and kept a close grip on Clarissa’s hand.
Clarissa turned her gaze toward the front of the long room. A railing separated the rest of the space from a large desk. Behind it sat an older man in a gentleman’s attire, his expression weary. But when he saw the runner leading them up, he turned an emotionless gaze toward Clarissa.
She trembled again. He looked her over as if she had been a heifer led up to the butcher’s block, she thought, as fear carved a cold path down her back. Bewilderment struggled with an increased apprehension.
“This is the female I was sent to fetch, sir, as I were instructed,” the runner said. “Miss Fallon.”
“This is the lady you were sent to fetch,” the earl corrected. “And I should like an explanation, if you please! Why have you invaded a reputable gentleman’s home in this manner?”
“Her brother will be most displeased,” Gemma added, “that you should bring his sister, a respectable young lady, into such a place and expose her to such company as this!” She looked around at the rough-looking criminals who waited their turn at the railing.
The magistrate appeared only mildly impressed at their protests. “Not the usual type of female, um, lady, we have in our charge, certainly,” he admitted. “But she was directed to our attention. The shop on Bond Street had her address; the clerk said this lady had charged several items today. So, Miss—” He looked down at his notes. “Miss Fallon.”
She nodded, her voice seemed to have failed her.
“First, can you identify this?” He picked up a length of muddy green silk, ripped at its edge.
Clarissa blinked. “Oh, my shawl.”
“You admit this is yours?”
“I only bought it today,” she said. “But—I—I dropped it, I suppose, in the street. How did it end up here? Did someone steal it?”
The magistrate grunted. “That’s your story, is it?”
“I—I suppose,” Clarissa said, knowing that she sounded uncertain. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I!” Lord Whitby snapped. “Why are you questioning a lady in this manner over such a minor contretemps?”
“It is not so minor as you suppose, sir,” the magistrate told him. “And what have you to do with this?”
“I am the earl of Whitby and a family friend,” he answered. “This lady’s brother was not at home. I could hardly allow two gently bred females to come here unescorted.”
“Ah, I see. Miss Fallon, I’m told by several of the clerks and shopkeepers that you had a loud dispute on the street today with an older woman.”
It was about Mrs. Craigmore! What lies had that wretched woman told now? Hoping that guilt was not etched across her face, Clarissa swallowed hard. “I did.”
“And who was this woman?”
“A—Someone I knew years ago,” she muttered.
“I’m afraid we shall need more detail than that,” the man told her, his eyes narrowing.
Clarissa bit her lip. To explain to the official about the foundling home in the presence of all the listening ears in the crowded room—such a tale would make her the gossip of the Ton. The scandal would be shattering. And why had that wretched woman raised so much a fuss over such a small quar
rel?
“I must ask why you are troubling a lady over a such a trifle,” the earl broke in once more, his voice matching the magistrate’s in sternness. The two men gazed at each other, and for a moment, Clarissa was not sure who would prevail.
At last, the magistrate frowned. “Very well. You shall see why this is a more serious matter than you know. Come with me.”
Picking up a cane, he rose from his chair and, moving somewhat awkwardly, turned toward the back of the room. One of the police clerks motioned them around the railing. Clinging hard to Gemma’s hand, Clarissa followed the stout man into a hallway, with the earl just behind them.
The magistrate led the way to another door and opened it. A small room was revealed, and a table, and stretched upon was a woman—a woman whose stout form was all too familiar.
She wore the brown silk gown that had surprised Clarissa earlier in the day, and she seemed unconscious or asleep. Her head was turned away from them. Clarissa held her breath, not wanting the matron to wake and accuse her again. What had happened?
“Is she hurt? But I—I did nothing like this,” Clarissa stammered. “I mean, I tried to hold on to her arm—I wanted to summon the watch, or even more my brother, to come to my aid, but she was too strong. She pulled away and vanished into the crowd.”
“You acknowledge that this is the woman you fought with on the street?” the magistrate demanded.
“I think so,” Clarissa said, even as Gemma interrupted.
“It was not a fight, in any real sense of the word, and you cannot believe that my sister-in-law could do any genuine harm to this person—”
But the older man motioned her to silence and spoke again to Clarissa. “You must be sure, Miss Fallon. Come around and look at her face.”
Reluctantly, Clarissa stepped closer. An unpleasant odor hung over the prone figure, and the once impressive silk frock was muddy and disheveled.
Clarissa moved with slow steps around the end of the table. When she got her first real look at the matron’s face, which was turned toward the wall, Clarissa gasped. For a moment, the room spun around her.
Mrs. Craigmore’s face was swollen and its skin bluish in color. Her eyes, which had always been somewhat protruding, now seemed to bulge even more, and they were open wide, her whole expression frozen into a dreadful parody of surprise and horror. Her lips were parted, and her tongue stuck out between discolored teeth. Her throat was dark with bruises—Oh, it was too horrible a sight to contemplate!
Clarissa trembled. As she swayed, she felt a strong arm around her shoulders to support her.
“How dare you show such a sight to a young lady?” The earl demanded. She had never heard him use such a tone.
Buttressed by his strength, she was able to conquer the giddiness that had threatened to overwhelm her. Still, Clarissa averted her gaze from the awful spectacle of the matron’s face and glanced down at the white arms and hands of the dead woman. She saw the scrap of green silk still clutched in the matron’s clenched fingers. Clarissa’s shawl . . .
“She was strangled with the shawl, my lord,” the magistrate told them. “And just now, this young lady, even if she is a lady, seems the most likely suspect.”
His tone seemed to echo with the grim note of the gallows. Once again, Clarissa felt the room whirl.
Eight
“I didn’t kill her!” Clarissa blurted. “I didn’t. How could I? We had a horde of people all around us. Don’t you think they would have cried out over a murder done under their eyes? I didn’t do it, even if she did deserve—”
She felt the warning grip of the earl’s fingers on her shoulders and she paused, trying to collect herself.
“She deserved it, did she?” The magistrate’s eyes were still cold. “And why would that be, Miss Fallon?”
“She—she was an evil woman,” Clarissa muttered, but she looked away from his skeptical gaze.
“Use your head, man,” the earl interrupted, his tone harsh. “The dead woman is—was—bigger and heavier and had to be more powerful. Do you really think she would have stood there on a crowded London venue and allowed a lightly built girl to strangle her, even if Miss Fallon had the physical strength, which is highly doubtful? The shawl was dropped in the street; anyone could have picked it up. That gives you no excuse to harass a respectable young lady.”
“I still want to know why the young lady thinks the woman—and what is her name, if you know it?—deserved to die,” the older man repeated.
“We knew her as Mrs. Craigmore,” Gemma put in, her tone steady, but her glance toward Clarissa also held a warning. “Whether she was using that name recently, none of us could tell you. But if you correspond with the magistrate in Middlesex—I will give you the details—you will find that this woman was sought there for her mishandling of funds at the local foundling hospital where she was, until some time ago, the matron in charge.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Lady Gabriel Sinclair now heads the board of directors who looks out for the welfare of the orphans who live in the home. I am also on the board and Miss Fallon and I have spent time at the institution. Since Lady Gabriel undertook her charitable endeavors, I’m happy to say that we have made considerable improvement in the conditions at the home,” Gemma said, her tone steady.
That was, more or less, true, Clarissa thought, although Gemma had trodden lightly past the more scandalous details and skated around just how and why they had “spent time” at the home. She fought to make her own expression as unrevealing as Gemma’s. But her stomach still clenched, and she fought back nausea. She could still see the dead woman’s face. . . . oh, was she to be haunted by that horrible woman’s image forever?
The magistrate pressed his lips together, but beneath the earl’s stern gaze and confronted by Gemma’s controlled and unrevealing blandness, he hesitated. “Very well, Miss Fallon, that will do for the moment, but we shall be speaking to you again, most like.”
“You have the lady’s address,” Lord Whitby said. “And we wish you success in your inquiries. But I trust you will think twice before again dragging a gentlewoman out to such a place.” His grim tone added to the warning implicit in his words.
Gemma added, “Yes, and now we certainly need to take Miss Fallon home. She has had a severe shock.”
Clarissa bit her lip and said nothing at all. But her thoughts raced madly. Who had killed Mrs. Craigmore? Although he put up no more argument, the magistrate continued to regard her with obvious suspicion.
But the man said no more as the earl guided them both out. The big room was still crowded with people, mostly of unsavory look and smelling of cheap gin or ale, as well as unwashed bodies and clothes. A few runners and several other officials oversaw the mob, and one man with wide shoulders but only medium height seemed to start as they passed by.
“Major, sir?”
Lord Whitby paused for a moment and spoke quietly to the man, then hurried to see them out the door. Not until they were again seated inside the chaise did Clarissa take a deep breath, and she almost regretted it because it made her head spin once more.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered.
Gemma looked at her in concern but this time did not scold her for her language. “Oh, I wish I had some smelling salts. Miss Pomshack would, if she were here, but I never carry them.”
“Put your head down,” the earl said, his tone almost rough. “It will keep you from swooning. Do it.”
Clarissa dropped her head into her lap, holding her face in her hands. In a few moments, the distressing weakness passed, and she had command of herself again. She struggled to make her eyes focus and to take deep breaths and not disgrace herself further. After they pulled away from the curb, she raised her head.
“Back to the Fallon home, at once,” the earl told his driver, then he turned to regard Clarissa.
She had managed to sit up. Dominic hoped she didn’t pass out; she still looked very pale. How dare that officious man allow her t
o witness such a sight! Dominic himself had seen far worse on the battlefield, but violent death was not a subject suitable for a lady.
Still seething, he sat silently until they reached the Fallon residence. He saw the ladies inside, and although he knew he should leave, he felt a curious reluctance to depart. Miss Fallon still looked so frightened, and he felt the need to do—something! So he said a silent thank-you when Lady Gemma turned to him and asked, her tone quiet, “You have been more than kind, Lord Whitby. If you would stay a few minutes more and sit with Clarissa—Miss Fallon—in the drawing room, I will speak to the footman and give him directions to go out and look for my husband. Captain Fallon must be told what has occurred.”
“Of course,” Dominic said, more than happy to have an excuse to linger. When he saw Miss Fallon upstairs, she sat down, perching on the edge of the elegant settee, but she gazed up at him with troubled eyes.
“You must not fret,” he told her. “There is not enough proof for anyone to seriously suspect you of murdering that woman. How on earth he dared to require you to come and look at the—You must put this out of your mind. It is nonsense to suppose that you might be involved in such a crime. He cannot accuse a lady on such flimsy evidence—”
“No,” she interrupted. “It’s not. That’s why I do worry, my lord. You see, I am not really a lady at all.”
He stared at her, not sure how to construe such a bizarre statement.
Still pale, but with her expression resolute, she held up her hand to check any protest. “It’s true. Not only will you never win your bet, my lord, but I’m certain that if you knew the truth, you would not wish to be associated with me in any way. And you have been so kind today, acting as my champion, standing by me when the magistrate implied . . . I cannot take advantage of your benevolence any longer without telling you the truth.”
Few people had called him kind. Arrogant, dashing, insolent, and overbearing—those and other epithets had been laid to his charge. But not kind . . . Still, he did not dare interrupt her now, when she had at last made up her mind to trust him.