by Sandra Heath
“I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but it seems like forever. What is to become of us? Have you seen Gaspard?”
Tears filled the housekeeper’s eyes. “No,” she whispered. “They’ve taken him away somewhere, I know not where. Oh, Miss Lexham, I’m so afraid for him, he was forced to do what he did, but he could not bring himself to become party to murder! I know that he will pay with his life!”
The tears wended their slow way down Mrs. Hollingsworth’s cheeks, and then she looked swiftly and ashamedly at Caroline. “Oh, my dear, I did not mean to imply that I was not equally concerned for you—”
“I know.” Caroline glanced at the tray. On it was a jug of milk, some cheese, and bread. “Is this my banquet?” she asked a little wryly.
“I would not leave them alone until they allowed me to see you. I am not permitted to stay long—”
“And you saying that nothing has been heard of Sir Henry?”
“No, but it is still dark outside.”
“I pray nothing has befallen him.”
“That is indeed to be hoped.”
“I must see him when he returns,” went on Caroline. “He knows that I had nothing to do with the plot.”
“Madam—”
“Yes?”
“I know that now is not the time to tell you this, but I cannot let you hold out hope that Sir Henry will rescue you, for I know that the opposite is the case.”
Caroline stared at her, her eyes huge and dark in the wavering light of the solitary candle flame. “What do you mean?’’
Mrs. Hollingsworth took a long breath. “I was in the kitchen when word was sent that refreshments were to be taken to the duke, who has temporarily occupied Lady Carstairs’ apartment. I decided to wait upon him myself, thinking that if I could speak to him, I could persuade him that you were entirely innocent and that my poor Gaspard should be treated leniently, for he is not a bad man. When I reached the apartment, however, I found that he was not alone; he was seated with a number of gentlemen and they were so deep in conversation that they hardly noticed my presence as I served them. I overheard the duke relating a tale Sir Henry had told him.”
“What tale?”
“Oh, my dear, I would give anything now not to have to say this to you,” said Mrs. Hollingsworth, reaching out to take Caroline’s hand. “Sir Henry told the duke of the night you caught him eavesdropping upon Gaspard and Boisville, and of how he convinced you to say nothing. The duke roared with laughter, telling the others that it spoke volumes of Sir Henry’s skills as a lover that he could persuade a member of the plot to believe him to be pursuing her.”
In the dim, faintly moving light, Caroline’s cheeks flamed with humiliation.
“So you see, my dear,” went on the housekeeper. “You must not hope for anything from Sir Henry, for he has believed you to be part of it all along, or at least, he has done for some time.”
“I cannot believe it,” whispered Caroline hollowly. “I cannot believe he thinks that of me—”
“I know that you love him, my dear, but he is not worthy of your love. Forget him; he has brought you nothing but pain and it would have been better for you had you never met him. You will be saved, of that I am sure, but your salvation will not come at his hands.”
Numbly, Caroline turned away.
The key turned in the lock again and a soldier looked in. “Your time is up, missus; you’re to leave the prisoner alone again now.”
Mrs. Hollingsworth squeezed Caroline’s cold fingers comfortingly and then left, and almost absently Caroline noticed the absence of the chinking of her keys. Those keys had been confiscated, for fear that she might contemplate helping her mistress to escape.
The darkness and silence folded over Caroline once more, but she was hardly aware of it. She felt and heard nothing, only the distant pounding of her broken heart.
* * *
Dawn was beginning to break, and the great crowd still thronged the courtyard. News of what had happened had spread like wildfire and the whole of London had learned of the events at the Lexham Hotel. The capital buzzed with it, and lights had burned in the windows of Mayfair mansions throughout the night. Everyone now knew that the Earl of Lexham’s fair cousin, the lady whose enterprise had taken London by storm, was guilty of being a wicked Bonapartist, that she had almost carried off a dastardly plan to assassinate the hero of Waterloo.
A solitary hackney coach made its way slowly through the crush in Mayfair Street, turning with difficulty into the crowded courtyard, the coachman shouting and cracking his whip in an attempt to clear a way.
Inside, Hal sat wearily, his head resting against the ancient upholstery. His cravat hung loose and his shirt was torn. Mud stained the costly velvet of his coat, and a bloody mark scored his right cheek, a reminder of how very close Boisville’s dying shot had come to finding its target.
Hal had fired first, picking the Frenchman off the parapet of the appropriately named new Waterloo Bridge, and as he began to fall to his death, Boisville had instinctively returned the shot. How close it had scorched, whining through the cold night air, leaving a scar forever.
He was roused from his thoughts by the sudden halting of the hackney as it at last reached the steps of the hotel, where the flowers were now crushed beyond redemption. He flung the door open and climbed down. Immediately he was recognized and a jubilant shout went up for the man whose swift actions had thrust the great duke to the safety of the floor. He hardly glanced around as he hurried up the steps and into the hotel. The door closed behind him and he came face-to-face with Mrs. Hollingsworth.
He managed a weary smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
“Sir.” She gave him the briefest of nods, her eyes cold and unsmiling.
“Where is Miss Lexham?” he inquired.
“I would have thought that you could have guessed that well enough for yourself, sir,” she replied stiffly.
“Mrs. Hollingsworth, I don’t know what is the matter with you, and I am certainly not in the mood for parlor games. Where is Miss Lexham?”
“She is under lock and key, Sir Henry, where the ill-founded suspicions of you and your like have placed her!” cried the distraught housekeeper, her anger and bitterness making her forget her place. “She is innocent, the poor lamb, and you will no doubt be congratulating yourself upon your cleverness. You’ve destroyed her as much as has the Earl of Lexham, Sir Henry Seymour, and I hope you one day pay the price for what you have done!”
Hal stared at her, but then he recovered. “Where is the duke?”
Mrs. Hollingsworth made to walk away from him, but he caught her angrily by the wrist, twisting her so sharply to face him that her skirts brushed against the nearby orange trees. “Damn you, woman! Answer my question!”
“The duke occupies Lady Carstairs’ apartment until later this morning!” she cried, rubbing the wrist which he abruptly released, and watching him as he pushed his way through the avenue of little trees, thrusting aside a hanging banner and then moving swiftly up the grand staircase.
The duke was taking a very Spartan breakfast and he looked up with a smile as Hal was admitted. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he rose from his table. “Seymour! By Gad, I’m glad to see you! Did you snare the ruffian?”
“His body will be recovered from the Thames, no doubt.”
“Excellent. I must thank you for your quick thinking, Seymour, although if I am to be tumbled to the floor I think I would prefer a pretty wench to do the honors next time, eh?” He gave his strange whoop of laughter again, sitting down to pour himself another cup of thick black coffee and gesturing to Hal to sit down with him.
“With your leave, Your Grace, I would prefer to stand.”
The duke looked shrewdly at him. “Come on then, out with it. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m told that Miss Lexham is under lock and key.”
“That is so, for unfortunately she was part of the plot.”
“That cannot be so!�
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“It is so, Seymour, there’s no doubt of it, and we’ve Lexham to thank for exposing her.”
“Lexham?” Hal’s eyes narrowed.
The duke stirred his coffee busily. “Yes, the fellow decided to pry a little and overheard an interesting and revealing conversation. She and Duvall were Boisville’s accomplices, they admitted it.”
Hal stared at this information. “She admitted it?”
“What is this, a damned inquisition? Yes, Seymour, she admitted it. Now, if you are going to be disagreeable and sulky, you can take yourself elsewhere to do it. If you have any doubts about Miss Lexham’s guilt, then you would be best advised to question her cousin about it. You’ll find him somewhere around, conducting himself as if the house has returned to him already.”
The duke looked up, but Hal had gone. With a shrug, and a slight frown at the continuing noise of the crowds outside, the duke continued with his breakfast.
Dominic lounged elegantly on a sofa in the red saloon, a cigar in one hand and an exceedingly early glass of cognac in the other. He held court, glorying in his triumph and fame and repeating the whole story yet again for the benefit of some new arrivals who were eager for every detail. He set a splendid scene, with a cast of wicked, intriguing assassins and with himself as the intrepid hero, risking life and limb to reach the truth and prevented from warning the duke himself only by the wretched cowardice and funk of his treacherous, despicable cousin, the fair Caroline.
From the doorway, Hal listened in disgust to this highly embroidered tale, and gradually the others in the room became aware of his presence. One by one they turned to look at him, something in his cold glance making them silent, and at last only Dominic’s drawling voice could be heard.
“Oh, she was a scheming little adventuress, all right; conniving was second nature to her. She made many an advance to me, you know. I suppose she fancied the notion of being Countess of Lexham, eh?”
He laughed, but the sound drew no response. Slowly his smug smile faded and he sat up, his eyes going at last to the reason for the silence. His face paled a little as he saw Hal. His tongue passed nervously over his lips and he gave an uneasy laugh. “Well, the paladin returns—and bearing suitable marks of mortal combat. Your health, Seymour.” He raised his glass.
With an oath, Hal came forward, striking the glass from his hand and reaching down to drag him from the sofa.
Dominic gave a startled cry. “Take your hands off me, Seymour!’’
Hal flung him contemptuously to the floor where he sprawled ignominiously on the carpet, winded. His face was pale but defiant as he gazed up at his attacker.
“Now, my brave fellow,” breathed Hal, his soft, menacing voice very clear in the silent room, “you will tell the truth about what happened.”
“I’ve told the truth—” Dominic ceased abruptly as a muddy boot pressed down roughly upon his chest, and then all color drained from his face as Hal slowly drew his pistol and leveled it at him.
“I’m not a patient man, Lexham,” he said softly. “Indeed, at this moment patience is a virtue in which I am singularly lacking.” He cocked the pistol and a stir passed through the watching gentlemen.
Dominic stared at the pistol and then at the ice-cold determination in his assailant’s eyes. “All right,” he cried suddenly, his defiance collapsing. “All right, Seymour, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Miss Lexham is innocent, she had nothing to do with it.” Dominic’s tongue passed dryly over his pale lips and he was a picture of craven fear as the pistol barrel moved closer.
“That is not enough, Lexham,” said Hal softly.
“I heard everything. Duvall told her about the plot, and she went straightaway to warn the duke. That is the truth, I swear it.”
A disgusted murmur greeted this and slowly Hal lowered the pistol. “You are beneath contempt, Lexham, so low that a snake could aspire to the name of gentleman before you. Now then, up you get!”
Reaching down, he dragged Dominic to his feet again. “We’ll toddle along to the duke and we’ll see to it that your innocent cousin is released, her good name and character unharmed by your foul lies. And after that, you would be best advised to get yourself out of the country, for unless you do, I shall be looking for you, dear fellow, and our next meeting will be the last thing you know in this life.”
Dominic’s gray eyes bulged with dread, his whole body trembled, and he could only nod his head vigorously in agreement. “Anything you say, Seymour, anything at all!”
Unable to look at such abject cowardice, Hal pushed Dominic toward the door, the others parting instinctively to allow them through.
The duke listened in amazement to Dominic’s miserable confession and then turned away in disgust. “Great God above,” he muttered. “And this creature is an English gentleman! Get him out of my sight before he makes me sick!”
Gladly Dominic escaped toward the door, but Hal’s icy voice followed him. “Remember what I said, Lexham, for if you forget, then it will be a fatal mistake.”
Dominic fled, stumbling down the grand staircase in such haste that he almost lost his footing upon the petals which still lay scattered there from the previous night. In his scramble to reach the outer door, he knocked over several of the long-suffering orange trees, a number of which had met with disaster during the night’s excitement.
The duke looked at Hal. “I think I owe Miss Lexham a considerable apology, Seymour, and I certainly must admit that I know I owe her my life.” He nodded at a waiting soldier. “Have her brought to me immediately.”
In the intervening minutes, nothing was said in the room. Hal waited by a window and the duke drummed his fingers upon the table. At last they heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The door was opened and Caroline was shown in. She did not see Hal; she saw only the duke.
Hal watched her, thinking how very lovely she was, even now. Her hair was disheveled, the honey curls tumbling down over her shoulders, and her gown was smoke-stained and a little torn, but still she was quite breathtaking.
She faced the duke, who had immediately risen to his feet. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”
“I did indeed, my dear Miss Lexham,” he said, coming around the table toward her. “And I have done so in the great hope that you will forgive me for doubting you.”
She stared, hardly daring to believe what she heard.
He took her hands. “You have been gravely wronged, m’dear, and it was my wretched fault for believing the word of that rodent of a cousin of yours. He has admitted his lies and I now know that you are entirely innocent, that you behaved in a most loyal, brave, and patriotic way last night.”
Tears of utter relief filled her eyes and she swayed a little. The duke steadied her. “There, there, now, it’s all over, m’dear, and you are free to go. But first you must tell me that you forgive me.”
She nodded, half blinded by the tears. “Of course you are forgiven, Your Grace.”
He raised her hands to his lips, kissing them upon the palms. “Thank you, m’dear, it’s more than I deserve.”
Her fingers closed over his. “There is one thing—”
“Yes? Name it.”
“It’s about Monsieur Duvall. Please be lenient with him, Your Grace, for he was made most wretched, he was forced to do their bidding because they threatened to kill his mother and sisters. He is not a wicked man, sir, he is very kind and gentle, and I regard him with great respect. He could not go through with it, he told my housekeeper and then me, and he told us in time to save you. There would have been much more time had not Boisville decided to hasten things by serving the pièce montée very much sooner than originally intended. You must think of these things, Your Grace, and I beg you to deal as lightly as you can with him, for it would be tragic if he paid the full price for a crime he could not contemplate without breaking down.”
The duke looked at her for a long moment. “How very compassionate you are, m’dear, and
how very eloquent a counsel for the defense. Very well, you have my word upon it that Duvall will be dealt with as leniently as possible.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” At that moment she saw Hal by the window, and the little smile that had warmed her lips faded immediately.
The duke perceived the change in her and glanced a little uncertainly at Hal. Then, clearing his throat, he muttered something about having things to attend to, and he left them alone.
“Good morning, Caro.”
“Sir Henry.” Her eyes were cold.
“Your pleasure at seeing I am safe and well quite overwhelms me.”
Briefly her eyes lingered on the mark on his cheek. “Did you apprehend Boisville?”
“I did.”
“Is he—”
“Dead? Yes. Very.”
“I congratulate you.”
“Do you? Your tone suggests that you wish me in the Thames with him.”
She hid her anguish with the consummate skill of devastated pride. She was more glad than he would ever know that he was safe and well. She knew great pain on seeing the mark of Boisville’s shot upon his cheek, for it told her how very close to death he had come. But she could not forget what he had said of her, what he had thought of her.
“You are wrong, Sir Henry. I do not wish that at all. I rejoice that you are safe and that you have defeated the assassin, and I trust that for Jennifer’s sake you will now leave such dangerous things to others.”
The coldness in her eyes and the aloofness of her manner angered him then, his own pride stiffening him against her.
“Thank you, madam,” he said shortly. “Again I am overwhelmed by your warmth and concern.”
“I do not know how you can expect anything else of me,” she said in a shaking voice. Afraid she was about to cry, she gathered her skirts and fled from the room.
He remained where he was for a long moment and then he brought his fist bitterly down upon the table. “God damn you, Caro. God damn you for that!”
Chapter 34
Another day had passed and Caroline stood with Mrs. Hollingsworth in the ruined dining room. The smoke had dulled the chandeliers and stained the magnificent ceiling. The broken window had been roughly boarded up for the time being and the curtains taken down to be restored.