“Killed himself.” The warden shifted his weight, trying to find an authoritative stance. “Strangled himself.”
“This is shocking,” the judge said. “You were charged with this man’s keep. If there has been negligence—”
“No negligence, I swear. He had better custody than others. If a man is determined to end his own life, there is not much that can be done to stop it.”
Nathaniel advanced until he stood near the judge. “Yes, but strangled? I visited that cell just an hour ago and there was no way for him to hang himself.”
“Not hung. Strangled. Used his chain. We found him with it around his neck and wrapped under his boots. He must have pushed with his feet to tighten—”
“I do not think that is possible,” Nathaniel said.
“You come see if you don’t think it is. We did not move him, since there needs to be an inquiry.”
“I expect any inquiry will be brief,” the judge said. “It appears Mr. Finley decided to cheat justice, and steal from the law its rights to him. Considering the man, I am not surprised. We will proceed with the next trial.”
Dismissed from his duties before he ever took them up, Nathaniel gathered his brief and left the courtroom on the heels of the warden.
The warden turned on him as soon as they were out of the building. “I do not care for your insinuation that I was lying about the cause of death, Mr. Knightridge.”
“If you thought I impugned you, forgive me. I just do not see how a man can strangle himself. He would become unconscious before dying, and cannot continue pulling a chain if he is.”
“You come see, if that is what you think. His legs were straight out, and the chain was taut. You may not think it is possible, but this bastard found a way.” He sighed and shook his head. “Police will have to come, and there’ll be a coroner’s hearing and all. A lot of fuss for a man who was going to swing anyway, if you ask me.”
Word of the death spread among the crowd that milled outside. They took the news with good cheer, and a few even shouted thanks to the warden.
Nathaniel viewed the animated faces with distaste. He had never accommodated himself to the way the populace enjoyed the death of criminals. There was something unseemly about it, as if a man’s bad character permitted the darker inclinations of civilized people to enjoy free reign in response.
He had witnessed his first execution when he was a boy, and his shock at the crowd’s glee had never completely left him. The condemned had been youths about his age and that only branded the memories on his brain. One had been crying for his mother his whole way up to the noose, and that mother had been shrieking for help to save her innocent boy. Everyone in the crowd either laughed or ignored her, but Nathaniel had never forgotten that poor woman’s horror.
His tutor had taken him to that execution as a lesson in sin and justice, but he had left the scene learning other things. He knew for certain that as the son of an earl he would never find himself on a gallows as a child, no matter what he did. His mother would always get a hearing if she begged for mercy. When he got older he sometimes attended the criminal trials, and saw the poor and powerless condemned for small crimes that did not merit death as punishment. He had also seen guilty verdicts for people he was sure were innocent, which was even worse.
So he lent his voice to them once he became a lawyer. He tried to see that truth was heard and justice achieved. He had won every defense he mounted too. Except one.
Not everyone outside Newgate was gleeful over Finley’s demise. As Nathaniel walked down the street, he approached a clutch of six boys loitering in the shadow of the prison. The eldest looked to be about fifteen and the youngest no more than seven. The two youngest ones were crying, and a boy a little older, maybe ten years in age, embraced their shoulders in comfort.
The image of sorrow and compassion arrested Nathaniel’s attention first. As he neared, however, his gaze settled on the older boy’s face. He had foreign blood in him which made his eyes and hair very dark. The face, however, was very English in a long, narrow way.
Nathaniel’s attention drew theirs. The group rearranged itself and held a quick conference. A tall, straw-haired lad stepped away from the building, into Nathaniel’s path.
He gestured to the rolled brief. “You a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
The others moved closer, curious. They smelled of poverty even more than they displayed it in their patched and ill-fitting garments. They reminded him of those boys he had seen hanged when he was very young.
The little ones stopped crying. The youth who had been giving comfort watched from behind their low heads, his bland face masking a deep worry that flickered in his dark eyes.
“You came from there.” The tall one gestured to the Old Bailey. “Is it true what we heard? John is dead?”
These must be Finley’s boys, part of that family he collected and trained. Nathaniel shifted the brief so it blocked the path to his pocket. “If you mean John Finley, then I am sorry, but, yes, he is.”
The young boys looked ready to cry again, and even the older ones grew subdued.
“Good for ’im, then,” the tall boy said with forced bravado. He turned to the others. “John said ’e’d never swing. ’Member? And he ain’t goin’ te.”
There was a lot of nodding and grunting and good for John’s. Nathaniel’s gaze kept returning to the distinctive-looking boy with the dark eyes.
Suddenly those eyes looked back, very directly. There was maturity beyond this boy’s years in those eyes, born of experiences that Nathaniel could not fathom. He also saw sorrow and vulnerability, as if this one alone understood that Finley’s death left them all without protection.
It was not that glimpse of the soul that surprised him, however, but rather a note of familiarity that sounded in his instincts. He sensed that he had seen these eyes before. Lighter and less wise, perhaps, but essentially the same.
The boy looked away, and Nathaniel turned his own attention to the tall boy still blocking his path. “What will you do now?”
The leader grinned over at the others. “We’ll do fine, won’t we, lads? Old John learned us how.” He glanced down at Nathaniel’s brief, and wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “Most ain’t as smart as you ’bout covering their purses.”
The other boys thought that was hilarious. The somber mood broken, they jostled each other and began drifting off.
The one with dark eyes made sure the two little ones kept up. As they all moved away, he glanced back at Nathaniel.
Again that note of familiarity chimed.
Born better than you. Born to be a lord.
CHAPTER
FIVE
The next week proved disconcerting for Nathaniel.
Memories kept distracting him. They intruded at the least welcome moments, occupying his mind so thoroughly that he forgot what he was doing.
The first memory concerned John Finley. He suspected that he bore some responsibility for the man’s suicide. If Finley had been deranged, their conversation in his cell might have pushed him into a fit of madness.
That conversation also absorbed his thoughts. Seeing that boy outside Newgate made Finley’s tale less bizarre.
Had Finley also seen the boy’s resemblance to Mardenford? Had he truly approached the baron claiming news of a lost relative? If so, why would Mardenford claim it was blackmail?
Probably Finley had not been explicit. He may have only dropped allusions, and demanded some payment before revealing his discovery. If Mardenford did not know of any lost relative, the entire episode would have made no sense to him.
And what about that boy? If a relative at all, he was probably the unknown by-blow of a cousin or uncle. For that matter, the resemblance could be a coincidence.
Or not even there.
It had not been a specific similarity that Nathaniel had seen. If asked to point out just how and why his instincts had sounded that chime, he would be hard pressed to do so.
De
spite his continued efforts to argue the whole episode into submission, it would not retreat.
Those dark eyes haunted him.
Another, more pleasant memory also kept intruding, but it was just as distracting and a torturous nuisance.
His mind kept seeing Charlotte’s face, flushed and entranced by passion, lips parted and eyes glistening, as he caressed her naked breast. That recollection provoked arousals and calculations that left him awake at night.
By week’s end he had meticulously planned the seduction of Lady M. several times. In each plot, their fulfillment more than matched that experience with the mystery goddess at Lyndale’s party.
A week after Charlotte’s meeting, Nathaniel found himself in Gordon’s gaming hall, lazily playing vingt-et-un while most of his mind planned yet another sensual escapade with the cool, self-possessed Lady Mardenford.
In addition to imagining Lady M. in potential ecstasy, he was also remembering his partner at that party in the actual throes of passion. The reality of his Venus and the anticipation of Lady M. tended to keep merging in his head.
The constant thoughts of both women, and the erection barely hidden by the gaming table, made it painfully clear that he needed a woman. He was deciding what to do about that when a tall man entered the hall and caught his eye.
The Earl of Lyndale walked over and sat down beside him.
“You have left your new bride?” Nathaniel asked. “I did not expect to see you on the town for at least another week.”
“Given a choice, I would be at home. Unfortunately, my wife’s sisters are visiting tonight. I decided to leave so she could warn them what insatiable goats husbands are.”
Lyndale laid down a large wager. He was dealt a ten and a nine. Any other man would hold, but Lyndale called for another card. He was dealt a two.
“Uncanny,” he muttered. “I can try to lose, and still I win.”
“Good fortune is smiling on you in many ways. It is odd to object.”
“Oh, I do not mind. However, it lures me to tempt fate. To see how far I can push it.”
“Not too far, I hope. You would be a fool to risk what you have recently gained.”
“I would never tempt fate where she is concerned, Knightridge. When you have met the woman you were born to love, you will understand that.”
The recent memories of his Venus returned right then. He realized that while he needed a woman, he did not want just any woman. He was not even sure that he really wanted Lady M. She was just the first woman he had kissed after making love to a mystery that touched his soul. He had even imagined he was with his Venus while he caressed Charlotte in his sitting room.
He realized he had wanted Charlotte to be that other woman that day. He had wanted to lose his fury and impotence once more in that unknown woman’s generous softness.
He had attended Lyndale’s party in a dark mood. Although often invited, he had never availed himself of the sensual opportunities before. That night, however, he had been a different man, one adrift from his moorings and appalled by his failures. Harry Binchley had been convicted two days earlier, and a melancholy had descended on him that only got darker and blacker with each hour.
He had gone to that party so he could remain alone but not isolated. He had not even seen the party’s joyful games from his dark corner. His eyes were closed while he listened to the music. Then he had opened them, and she was standing there in that white gown and mask, appearing unsure of what to do now that she had arrived.
She had known. As they sat together on the safety of that chaise longue, separate from the others, together in spirit, he had looked in her eyes and seen that she understood all of his anger and doubts. With clear eyes and a reassuring touch, she had soothed his helplessness in the face of losing that boy’s chance to live. They did not speak of it, not one word, but she had known, just as he had known about her loneliness and fear. Their comprehension had been complete and mostly silent.
Their passion had been inevitable after that, and indifferent to past or future or surroundings. It had been a night spent thoroughly alive within an incomparable bond.
No, it was not Lady M. whom he really wanted. His body might desire her but his soul yearned for someone else.
He called for some whisky for Lyndale and himself and they continued their play.
“Say, I have been intending to ask you about something,” Nathaniel said. “It has to do with your parties.”
“There will be no more. A score of men have inquired before you. I think I will take out an advertisement in The Times to make it clear.”
“I assumed there would be no more. I am curious about something, however. The ladies who attended—I assume you know who they were.”
“Invitations were sent.”
“So every woman at one of your parties received an invitation?”
“Usually.”
“Then you knew who they were.”
Lyndale took a good swallow of whisky. “There is no good in wearing a mask if the host demands your name. Since my parties would be ridiculous if women did not attend, I never compromised those who did. If they wanted anonymity, so be it.”
“Then a woman could arrive who had not been invited.”
“It was known to happen. I had no reason to object, since, as I just explained, the men always showed but one could never count on the women. If some lady decided to attend uninvited, all the better.”
“That is all very instructive to orgy planning, Lyndale, but not very useful to the matter that interests me. I asked because I need to learn the name of one woman in particular. She attended the last party. She wore a jeweled white mask, and was dressed in a filmy white costume that was more Greek than Roman.”
“Indeed. Well, I cannot help you.” Lyndale peered tightly at his cards.
“Is something wrong?” Nathaniel asked. “You look odd.”
“I do not look odd. I look passive. Expressionless.”
“Exactly, which is odd. You are never expressionless. I think you know who she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman I was with at your last party, damn you.”
“Damn me? Damn you. How could I know? I was barely in attendance myself, and spent my time in the gaming room.” He pushed away his cards. “All done here. That is enough for me. I think I will go home and throw out the Cameron sisters and take my wife to bed.” He stood.
“Who was she, Lyndale? I ask as a friend. It is important that I find her.”
Lyndale looked down with a truly odd expression. Annoyance and sympathy merged on his face.
“If she mattered at all, you should have begged for her name before you parted. I could not give it to you even if I knew it. The lady relied on my discretion. I suggest that you set about swiving every woman in London with similar height and bearing. Eventually you might again kiss the same lips that finally made it important.”
The distracting memories continued all night, braiding together in Nathaniel’s dreams.
By morning he decided to take steps to remove one of them. With a few inquiries he should be able to ascertain if Finley’s story of a lost boy possessed any possible truth.
The easiest way to learn the answer was to ask Mardenford. Since that would not be welcomed, he chose the next most sensible source of information.
That afternoon he called on Lady M.
He was not sure he would be received. However, after a brief delay, the servant ushered him up to the second drawing room, where the petitions had been signed the week before.
The servant opened the door to reveal a relaxed, domestic tableau. Charlotte was on the carpet on hands and knees, barking like a dog at a small blond child posed in the same position. The little boy barked back and added a few growls for good measure.
Their game made Nathaniel smile. A glance at the other person in the room caused the expression to freeze on his face, however.
Lord Mardenford watched the display from a chair that faced the door. H
is attention was not on the antics of his precious heir. Rather, his heavy-lidded gaze rested on Charlotte.
More precisely, it rested on Charlotte’s rump.
There was no mistaking the man’s thoughts regarding this woman’s position. If his eyes had held only lascivious lights, Nathaniel would not have cared. There was more in them, however. By the time Nathaniel was greeted, he had concluded that Mardenford held affections for his sister-in-law that were not appropriate.
Nathaniel experienced a prick of annoyance. He also felt something more primitive. The quick glare that Mardenford shot the intruder confirmed that a similar instinct had risen in the baron. The air between them crackled with the mutual suspicion of competitors.
“Mr. Knightridge, this is my nephew Ambrose. Come join our pack,” Charlotte said. She pretended to try to nip the child.
Ambrose at first giggled, but then suddenly decided it was no more fun. He dropped down on his seat and his mouth turned down. Tears were coming, and one look at Nathaniel towering above did the trick. He threw himself into Charlotte’s arms as if his life were in danger.
“I have ruined his play,” Nathaniel said.
Charlotte’s embrace quieted the sobs to sniffles. She shook her head. “He is tired. He should have gone home to his nap long ago, but I began another game, which led to yet another, and now he is undone.”
Lord Mardenford still sat in his chair. Other than a greeting, he had not said anything.
Charlotte turned to him. “You should take him home now, James. Apologize to his nurse for me. It was selfish of me to keep him here so long, and I fear he will be a handful at supper.”
Mardenford lifted the drowsy boy. Despite his passive expression, Nathaniel smelled his resentment that he would be dismissed because of the boy, while another man would stay.
Charlotte seemed oblivious to the bad humor her brother-in-law exuded as he walked to the door. She held out her hand. Nathaniel helped her to stand.
“You caught me unawares, Mr. Knightridge. Normally I do not receive callers on Thursdays, since that is when Ambrose comes.”
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