by Nicole Byrd
So he listened silently while it all came out. It was a strange story . . . her widowed mother’s death, her brother away at sea, the dishonest solicitor who had turned Clarissa over to the wretched conditions of the foundling home so that he could pocket the money her brother had been sending home to support her. . . .
Dominic wanted to reach out and put his arms around her, but, afraid that the halting words would die away if he acted on his impulse, he maintained his control and sat very still.
But when she said, her voice trembling, “I was sent away to serve as a nursery maid when I was fourteen—” He must have made an involuntary sound, because she went, if it were possible, even more pale.
“You were put into service!”
She nodded. “My employer was not a very good man, but I avoided—I avoided his—his . . .” This time she swallowed hard. “I worked very hard, and I learned to survive, my lord, although—” She looked thoughtful for a moment, and some of her remembered pain seemed to be pushed aside. “To be honest, I cannot say that I made a very good servant.”
He tried not to grunt again, but she looked at him earnestly, as if bound now to confess everything. “I was not very respectful, you see, and once—once I put rocks in his oatmeal, after he had caned me for forgetting to lay the fire in the schoolroom.”
He laughed this time; he could not avoid it. She looked at him in surprise.
“I wish I could put a sword through his heart,” the earl told her. “That anyone should mistreat you so!”
She bit her lip. “But you see what they will say, if it all comes out. Mrs. Craigmore beat me many times because I would talk back to her, especially when I was first sent there. I kicked her in the shin once, quite hard, and she never did make me say I was sorry . . . although I bore the bruises from the beating that followed for a bloody se’night.”
She sighed, and Dominic tried not to show the surge of anger he felt at the dead woman. Just as well she was dead, or he might have strangled her himself!
“Perhaps that was one reason the matron was very ready to send me away. I’m afraid I’m not very good at holding my tongue, even when I know I should. They will say I killed her out of revenge, or even that I’ve gone off my head after enduring such an unladylike ordeal at the foundling home and afterward.” Clarissa wrung her hands together for a moment. “And I think it only fair that you should know the truth, so you can avoid me in the future. Assuming they do not send me to the Old Bailey, that is, or—or hang me.”
Her voice quivered, and Dominic put out one hand to grip both of her small ones as she gripped them tightly on her lap.
“No one is going to send you to prison, and you will certainly not be harmed. Trust me, I promise you I will see to that.”
Her expression lifting a little, she gazed up at him. “But you cannot want to know me, or claim my acquaintance, after this.”
“I am not such a faintheart as that,” Dominic told her. “What on earth have you done that you should be ashamed of, or suffer for, now? You were a child. You had no control over what happened to you.”
“But you know what the Ton would say if they know—when they know,” she argued. “No one will receive me. After all of Gemma and Matthew’s efforts, or even yours, I will be forever disgraced.”
That, he could not argue with. Even Dominic’s so-called influence over Society’s elite would not be sufficient to erase such an unusual history. He pressed his lips together. “Then we must be sure that it does not come out, not in court, nor anywhere else.”
“But the magistrate—”
He grimaced. “A shame, for once, that the man we saw today is not one of the ‘trading judges.’ ”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“A magistrate who can be bribed,” he explained. “No, we will simply have to find out who really killed that repugnant woman. Then you will never have to appear in court, and no one will have to hear the story.”
The new look of hope in her eyes was reward enough, even though she demanded almost at once, “But how?”
“I have one ace in the hole,” he told her. “And I had better go and see about palming it.”
When Gemma returned, with apologies for her delay, the earl made his good-byes. Clarissa tried to express her thanks, but he waved them away. After he bowed to them, she watched him go with real regret.
“My poor dear,” Gemma said when they were alone. “Should you like tea or a glass of wine, for the shock? Perhaps you should lie down for a while?”
“No, I think—” Clarissa began, but then she paused as Miss Pomshack came into the drawing room.
“My dear Miss Fallon,” she said. “The servants are saying—that is, I cannot credit the stories I am hearing, but I fear you are in some distress?”
Clarissa simply could not bear more platitudes, as good-hearted as her governess-companion undoubtedly was. Clarissa sent Gemma a swift look of entreaty and said, “Yes, it has been a distressing morning, Miss Pomshack. I was just about to lie down, but I’m sure Lady Gemma will explain.”
Gemma shot her back a look of understanding. “It was an appalling misapprehension, but it did upset Miss Fallon.”
“Ah,” Miss Pomshack said wisely, thought curiosity still struggled with compassion on her long face. “Perhaps I should make up one of my tisanes for you?”
“Thank you, that would be most helpful,” Clarissa told her. “And yes, I think I will go to my room for a short rest.” Anything to escape Miss Pomshack’s truisms, she thought, trying not to feel ungrateful for that lady’s good intentions.
But once she shut the door to her own bedchamber, Clarissa found herself pacing up and down the room, too restless to lie upon her bed. That dreadful swollen face—had even the wicked Mrs. Craigmore deserved such treatment? Mind you, it was much what one would experience when they put a noose around a condemned person’s neck. . . . Would they really convict Clarissa of the murder?
Shivering, she swore briskly, here where no one could hear her and be offended. It was better than bursting into nervous tears! And then she remembered the touch of the earl’s hand upon her own nervously clenched ones, and how strong he was . . . how stern he had been in the magistrate’s office and how kind when they were alone. One might almost think that he really cared what happened to her. . . .
Some of her fear eased. When Miss Pomshack came up with the tisane, Clarissa was able to thank her sweetly and sip a little of bitter-tasting herbal drink. When her governess had departed, looking pleased to be of service, Clarissa poured the rest into her slop jar.
Then she did lie down briefly upon her bed, wondering what the earl was doing now, and how soon he would return.
When Gemma came up later to check on her, Clarissa explained she had told Lord Whitby about her past.
“And he still wishes to help,” Clarissa added. “He is so kind.”
Gemma looked thoughtful. “Yes,” she agreed. “Very kind.”
When Dominic had left the Fallon house, he jumped into his carriage before the startled groom could offer to put down the steps, and directed the coachman to return to Queen Square. There, not wishing the magistrate to see that he had returned, Dominic gave careful directions to his groom and sent him inside the office.
Fortunately, the runner who had spoken to him was still there, and within a few minutes, the groom was able to locate the man amid the crush. Soon they both returned, and Dominic motioned to the runner to climb into the carriage.
“Major, sir,” the man said again. “Or is it me lord, nowadays?”
“Lord Whitby,” Dominic told him, “When my father died, I had to leave the army and take up my duties at home. Your name is Rubbles, isn’t it? I’m glad to see that you survived Waterloo.”
The man grimaced. “Oh, they sent me off to that bloody war in the Americas, sir. We fought in a damned swamp in a place called New Orleans, and ol’ Packenham made a real mishmash of the battle, he did, not like Wellington would ’ave done. And I mis
sed the excitement in Belgium.”
“You’re lucky to be in one piece, trust me,” Dominic told the ex-trooper dryly. “The excitement, as you put it, was a carnage, even if we did manage to scrape through it and defeat Napoleon once and for all.”
The man nodded. “At any rate, not much to do in the army these days, sir—I mean, me lord, so ’ere I am.”
“Yes, and I would like to hire your services. Runners are available to private citizens in distress, I believe.”
“Indeed, me lord, it would be an honor,” Rubbles answered, his tone hearty. “Lost some valuables, ’ave you?”
“I have a young friend who is in danger of losing much more than a few pieces of silver,” Dominic told him. “I need to find out more about the woman whose body was brought in today, the one who was strangled. Where did they find her, by the way?”
“In an alley, sir, me lord, not that far from Bond Street. Strangled, she was, with that fancy shawl. Silk is quite strong, you know, when it’s of good quality,” the man said, with the relish of the professional.
“Do you have any information about her activities? We have reason to think she was involved in criminal activity.”
“Is that so? She ain’t known in our lists, me lord, not in this parish.”
“What about in surrounding districts?”
The runner shrugged. “We only know about the crime what ’appens in our own streets, me lord.”
“Make that your first line of inquiry,” Dominic suggested. “By then, I’m sure I will have more for you to do. Here’s my card. Come round tonight before dinner and let me know if you have found out anything.” He detailed a careful listing of the information they knew about her, which unfortunately did not take long.
“Yes, me lord, an ’onor, me lord,” the man said, his tone eager. “Good to be working ’neath your command again, if I may say so, me lord.”
Dominic acknowledged the tribute and took his leave, but he was thinking hard. If the late unlamented matron had been as harsh as Miss Fallon had said, and he was sure the young lady was speaking the truth, there must be many who might harbor a grudge against that wretched woman.
Of course, finding the real killer amid London’s teeming lower classes was like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. He swallowed a groan. No, they were only beginning, and he could not relinquish hope so easily. It was necessary to find the killer to safeguard Miss Fallon’s reputation and perhaps—even though he would not admit it to her—her life. He could not, would not, rest until it was done, and she was safe.
Lost in thought, he sat in the carriage until a passing coal cart made his team shift nervously at the rumble of the heavy vehicle, then he remembered to tell the patiently waiting coachman to take him home.
It seemed a very long day until Dominic could expect to hear the first report from the runner. However, when the man did return, to be invited into Dominic’s study and given a glass of port, which he gulped down in a way that made the butler wince at such mistreatment of fine wine, he had little of importance to disclose.
“None of the surrounding districts reported any criminal activity as put to this woman’s blame, me lord. In fact, I couldn’t find a soul who ’eard of a Miz Craigmore.”
“You asked for her by name?” Dominic asked.
“O’ course, me lord.”
Dominic sighed. He remembered now that this soldier had been a resolute fellow, but better at following orders than thinking up any enterprising innovation of his own. Brave of heart but perhaps a little shy of wit, in fact.
“She will most likely not have been using that name any longer,” he explained, keeping his tone even with some effort. “You will need to inquire for a woman of her build and general appearance.”
The runner looked dismayed, as well he might. “Pardon, me lord, but there’s ’eaps of short, portly women who engage in criminal activity. That could take a long time, and then we’d ’ave to sort through the most likely suspects.”
“I agree,” Dominic told him. “I never said this would be easy. But I don’t care how long it takes, or how much it costs, the effort is vital.”
“Very well, me lord,” Rubbles said, but his expression was still doleful.
Dominic poured him one more glass of wine to cheer him, then sent the man on his way. But when he went into the dining room a short while later, Dominic ate his solitary dinner without much appetite. If Clarissa Fallon’s fate depended on the honest but not overly bright runner, she could be in danger, indeed. He would certainly have to take a hand himself. And if Dominic felt uneasy, what was she feeling now?
He would have to go back tomorrow and try to reassure her, Dominic told himself as he sliced so hard at a piece of tender beefsteak that it slid across the china plate and splattered the white linen that covered the table. Of course her family would gather around her, but Miss Fallon might still need someone of influence to stand by her and rally her spirits—merely as a concerned friend, of course.
In fact, Miss Fallon was having the same problem with her own appetite. Clarissa stared at a piece of roasted chicken as if it might turn on the plate and attack her, as unexpectedly as had the strange twist of Fate today. It seemed that Mrs. Craigmore could threaten her happiness even from the grave. Clarissa shivered.
Gemma seemed to notice. “Clarissa, try to put it all out of your mind. We will not allow you to be punished for a crime you did not commit.”
“They would not dare accuse a lady on such flimsy grounds,” her brother added. Matthew had been shocked and indignant when he had heard the news and had gone round at once to have angry words with the magistrate.
But the magistrate had accused her, even if not yet formally, Clarissa thought. She glanced up at them, grateful for their love and support, but unable to share her deep sense of unease. Just as she had been feeling almost restored to what her brother would call her “suitable place in Society,” she had once again been plunged into uncertainty, feeling unprotected and at the mercy of those in authority—figures who had, in her previous experiences, proven highly undependable. She had felt just as anxious and frightened when, as a girl, she had been dumped on the doorstep of the foundling home and given into the cruel care of Mrs. Craigmore.
“It would be most improper!” Miss Pomshack agreed as she took a dainty bite of her chicken. “A lady in Newgate!”
Clarissa shivered, but Miss P did not seem to notice that her soothing words were having the opposite effect than she must have intended.
Perhaps that good lady, as well as Matthew and Gemma, believed all the comforting reassurances they were offering her. Clarissa found she could not. So she could swallow little at dinner, and later, after Matty had helped her change and had brushed out her long fair hair, Clarissa climbed into bed but found sleep hard to come by.
And when she did drift off, she dreamed of being caged behind prison bars with the shadow of the hangman’s noose falling across her face, and from across the way she saw a group of children who laughed and taunted her. “Cl’rissa’s gonna get caned again. Cl’rissa’s gonna get hanged again . . .”
They sang the refrain over and over.
She woke to find her face damp with sweat. Shivering, Clarissa found she could not lie still. Rising, she pulled a wrapper about her and went to the window. Pulling aside the draperies, she looked out over the dark, quiet streets, lit only by an occasional streetlight. Most of the houses were dark, all the honest people abed. But out in the darkness, in streets more narrow and littered than this one, another London thrived and stirred and went about its nefarious business. She had had glimpses of that world from her servants’ hall and from the foundling home itself.
Why had she dreamed of children taunting her? True, the other girls at the home had made fun of her at first, with her “high class” accent and her fastidious manners. But Clarissa had learned to adapt, and the other girls had not always been unkind. And there had been a shadowy male face in her dream—a boy. There h
ad never been boys at the foundling hospital; where had that image come from? His face had seemed familiar in the dream, but now she found the vision slipping rapidly away.
Clarissa sighed and laid her head against the windowpane, which felt cold against her forehead. As happy as she had been to be restored to her family, to a safe home, she had not valued her rescue enough, she thought. Now that it seemed about to be snatched away from her, she realized just how blessed she had been.
“No,” she said aloud, lifting her head and blinking away treacherous tears. “She will not win—she will not defeat me even after her death! I will find some way around this!”
And perhaps, with her brother and Gemma and with Lord Whitby, who so surprisingly had not disavowed his acquaintance even after learning the shocking story of her past, beside her, perhaps, she was not so alone after all.
When the sun peeked over the rooftops of London, Clarissa returned to her bed and fell into a restless sleep.
She slept late, and when she finally rang for Matty to help her dress, then sipped a quick cup of tea and went downstairs, she found they had an early caller. But it was not Lord Whitby, as she’d hoped, but Gemma’s sister-in-law, Lady Gabriel Sinclair, sitting with Gemma and Miss Pomshack.
“I came as soon as I got your note,” the elegant blonde was telling Gemma. “I’m so sorry that your brother had already departed for Yorkshire before your missive arrived. Gabriel has found a clue”—she paused and the two women exchanged a speaking glance—“about the man he is seeking, and he was eager to follow up on it at once. Otherwise, I know he would be at your disposal in this matter.”
“I do appreciate any help he can give,” Gemma answered. “At the moment, we have few facts to investigate, however. Despite that, Matthew has gone out again; he cannot seem to sit still while his sister is so threatened.”
“A very natural sentiment,” Miss Pomshack declared.
Lady Gabriel nodded in understanding. “But I wished to come anyhow, not only to express my support for Matthew’s sister, as of course I would in any case, but to tell you some interesting information that I have come across as I’ve studied the late matron’s books, now luckily restored to us. It’s very fortunate that after we thought they were lost, they were discovered in a cubbyhole at the foundling home.”