Sophia grimaced at the very thought. “And Miss Pemble is housed with the rest of the incurable?”
“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” Michael answered, approaching a set of double doors. “Miss Pemble’s doctor says she’s a special case. And special cases get cells away from the others. Still, there’s—”
“Yet another set of doors that divides her from the rest?” Nicholas asked dryly.
Michael knocked this time, a panel at approximately eye level sliding open. A pair of eyes stared at them.
“Michael Morland, Orderly Number 26127. Brought visitors for Miss Pemble. Nurse Dwyer already cleared it with her supervisor.”
The eyes looked at each and every one of them, then the panel slid shut just as quickly as it had opened. A jangle of keys sounded, then a lock gave way and one of the two doors slowly opened inward as if by its own accord. A cacophony of screams and grunting, rants and laughing met Sophia’s ears. Nicholas reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers.
Michael entered first and the rest of the party followed, the routine becoming second nature.
“Jamie,” Michael called above the din. A very small man appeared from behind the door, slamming it shut and seeing to the locks before acknowledging the orderly.
“Michael, will we see you at the tables tonight?”
Michael stopped to answer him, giving Sophia the opportunity to manage a good look at the second orderly. Jamie was standing on a tall stool, and for a very good reason: he was short. Perhaps half the size of Michael, though quite stout. He wore a clean gray uniform exactly the same as his friend’s. A number of tattoos peeped out from beneath the pressed fabric. Sophia could not make out each one due to the poor lighting from the tallow candles. But there was a lion on one of his forearms and a poem engraved on the other, the words “love” and “regret” the only ones she could decipher.
“You could not keep me away, Jamie,” Michael hollered, his twisted smile appearing again. “Must be off. They’re here to see Miss Pemble. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”
Jamie smiled widely at the three of them, revealing several gold teeth. “Ah, Miss Pemble. Tell the dear that Jamie sends his love.”
“I will,” Sophia assured him just as something was flung from the first cell. It hit the wall and slowly oozed down it before settling into the crack between the mopboard and the wall.
“Come along, folks,” Michael urged, putting himself between the three and where the liquid had been thrown. “Before Wild Willy decides it’s time to toss another round.”
“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” Nicholas whispered to Sophia as they started walking down the hall. The wet splat of more material sounded again.
She was afraid, the guttural cries and screams compelling her to walk more quickly. She was also terribly curious.
Sophia turned her head and slanted a sideways glance toward the first cell. Wild Willy stood at the bars, completely nude and covered in what appeared to be his own excrement. His gaze was glassy and his hands reached out for her, the fingers on both hands mimicking a crawling spider as he attempted to touch her.
“You are the one I’ve been waiting for,” the lunatic cried out. “Free yourself from those who would corrupt you and join me. Join me and we will find the answers you seek!”
“Eyes forward,” Nicholas reminded her, pulling Sophia close.
She wanted to be unaffected by the man’s words. She craved the ability to possess only a critical and scientific reaction. But her body began to tremble uncontrollably and her vision blurred in a visceral response.
Michael stopped in front of a second set of double doors and waited for the orderly on the other side to slide the eyehole open.
“The worst is over, then?” Nicholas asked him lightly, though he held on to Sophia as though Wild Willy’s cell had crumbled from the weight of the man’s own mental anguish and released the poor soul.
The door’s peephole opened and Michael repeated everything he had told Jamie earlier, then turned back to Nicholas. “Let us hope so.”
24
There appeared to be only a handful of patients in this wing. Nicholas scanned the hall as Michael bent over and looked through the eyehole into Maggie Pemble’s room. Was it something good, or something bad that had earned these incurables rooms instead of cells? After walking the gauntlet past Wild Willy and the other madmen under the short orderly’s care, Nicholas wasn’t sure that he wanted to know.
Michael reached for his keys and picked through the collection until he found the one he was looking for. Placing it in the lock, he turned it ’round until the lock clicked open. “Let me go in first and explain things to her. She’s sure to be confused after so many years without visitors,” he told the small group before pulling the key out and opening the door.
“Maggie Pemble, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he exclaimed before going in and closing the door behind him.
“I believe those patients—back there,” Singh pointed to where they’d just been, “I believe they would benefit from a more peaceful setting.”
Nicholas looked at his friend. Singh’s usual air of calm and serenity had vanished, a haunted quality now in his eyes. “I believe you would benefit from the same, my friend.”
“It is true enough, sahib. I have heard stories of the institutions in India. Still I could not have imagined anything such as Mr. Wild Willy and the others in their cells.”
Nicholas agreed with Singh. He himself had spent time in arguably some of the most depraved and corrupt places in England and abroad, and nothing had shaken his nerves quite like Bedlam.
At least, not to date, anyway. Who knew what waited for them behind Maggie Pemble’s door?
“I will pray for them,” Singh said resolutely, which seemed to lessen the worry creasing his tanned forehead.
“As will we all,” Sophia put in, looking kindly at Singh.
The door opened and Michael reappeared. “Sorry for the wait. Maggie needed a few minutes to freshen up.”
He stepped back and beckoned them inside. Singh went first, with Sophia following closely behind, then Nicholas.
The light in the room was of a different quality than what they’d seen in the rest of the hospital. The flames of beeswax candles and natural brightness from the large barred windows cast a pleasant glow, soft and soothing, across the small but comfortably situated room.
“Don’t be shy, you three,” a shaky feminine voice called out.
Nicholas looked past the single bed and washstand to a small parlor of sorts. A large Sheridan chair upholstered in velvet stood with its back to them, a curled tuft of white hair visible just above the top.
“Go on and make yourselves comfortable,” Michael said. “Maggie has requested tea. I’ll see what can be done.” Then he left the room, closing the door and locking it behind him.
Sophia moved to approach Miss Pemble first and Nicholas stopped her. He held up his hand and pointed silently at himself and Singh.
She glared, but relented, allowing Nicholas to walk forward. She waited for Singh to follow him before she herself moved.
Nicholas rounded the chair to stand in front of the woman—somewhat relieved to find she was just that, a woman. She was tall and slightly softer in areas where she most likely had not been in her youth. Fine, sharp cheekbones could still be seen beneath the wrinkled skin with its hasty application of powder and rouge.
She had been beautiful in her time, but the years of living in Bedlam had left their mark. Her faint blue eyes were dull and her smile faded to a shadow of what it surely once was.
“Miss Pemble, may I introduce myself. I am Christopher Felton, of Hertfordshire. This is Dr. Pamuk,” Nicholas explained, purposely speaking in a slow, steady tone, “and that’s my wife, Miriam Felton.”
“And which one of you is my relation?” she asked, leaning slightly forward and squinting to see Nicholas better.
Sophia stepped forward and curtsied. “I am, Miss Pemble. Y
our sister Rosamund was my mother.”
Miss Pemble gestured for Sophia to come closer. “Is that so?” She plucked a small pair of silver-rimmed spectacles from a table near her chair and held them up to her eyes. “You do look very much like Rosie. I was not aware that she’d had any children.”
“Just me—and I was born some time after you’d left for London,” Sophia explained.
Miss Pemble appeared to consider Sophia’s words while she returned her glasses to the table and settled back into her chair once again. “We’d thought her barren. What is life without surprises, I suppose. Come, sit down.”
Nicholas waited while Sophia chose a chair directly opposite the woman, then took a seat near a cheery fireplace and watched Singh claim the final chair.
“Now, I’m afraid I have very little time before I must prepare for my seven o’clock performance,” Miss Pemble said apologetically. “I would have requested that my understudy appear in my place if I knew you were coming, but there is no time to do so now.”
Nicholas nodded in understanding, wondering why Michael had failed to tell them of the woman’s delusion. “You continue to perform, then?”
“Oh yes, young man. I could never give up the stage,” Miss Pemble replied dramatically. “It is who I am, after all.”
A key connected with the lock and Michael pushed the door open, a tea tray in his right hand. He set it down on a low table situated in front of Miss Pemble, then left.
“May I pour, aunt?” Sophia asked.
The woman nodded happily and gazed at Sophia with fondness. “So like your mother …” she remarked, failing to give any particulars.
Nicholas watched Miss Pemble as her smile suddenly drooped into a sad frown and tears trembled on her lashes. “Rosamund was such a lovely girl.”
The abrupt shift in emotions demonstrated the very fragile nature of Miss Pemble’s state—and made Nicholas nervous.
“And the play you’re in this evening? Would it be Dido Queen of Carthage?” Nicholas asked, anxious to secure the information they required before the woman forgot all about them.
Miss Pemble’s eyes burned with anger and she let out a disgusted huff. “That is a play I’ve sworn never to act in again!”
Sophia handed a cup and saucer to the elderly woman and returned to the tray. “Why ever not? I have heard such praise for the story.”
“Well, that might be,” the older woman countered, pausing to take a sip of her tea. “But did you know a woman was murdered because of that play? And—if you can even begin to believe—a dastardly fellow attempted to have me committed to a mental hospital when I told the truth of it. The nerve!”
Nicholas accepted a cup and saucer from Sophia, balancing them in both hands. “That sounds even more interesting than the plot of the play. Would you mind telling us the whole story?”
“Real life is often more exciting than fiction—at least for actors,” Miss Pemble replied, taking a second drink of tea. “Now, let me think … The year was 1798. We’d been invited to perform in Sussex at a house party given by …”
She took a third sip and squinted. “By a peer of the realm. I’m afraid his name escapes me at the moment. When we arrived at the manor house, we were told the host had requested that some of the guests be allowed to participate in the play. Of course I thought such a request was completely outrageous. Still, one does not say no to a lord.”
Miss Pemble looked at Sophia in particular. “I am sure that Rosamund taught you such, yes?”
“Of course, aunt,” Sophia agreed, slowly stirring some sugar into her teacup. “You had no choice. And the play moved forward, with partygoers amongst the ranks of the actors?”
The woman’s outrage burned anew. “Precisely. We had no more than three days to assemble our set, rehearse, and attempt to bring them into line. It was madness. Somehow we managed it—that is until the afternoon before the play.”
“Is that when someone was murdered?” Sophia asked, her tone slightly tipped in urgency.
“Murdered?” Miss Pemble repeated, finishing her tea and holding it out for Sophia to refill. “Oh yes, that’s right. The lady of the house was found in the nursery—I will spare you the gruesome details. But I saw the man who committed the crime … and the man who paid him to do it. I’d overheard them talking in the stables the day before the lady was killed. I was resting in the hayloft after a particularly strenuous assignation with one of the stable hands. The two men entered and began to review a plan of sorts; I was somewhat sleepy and am afraid I did not pay as much attention as I should have. Neither of them uttered the words ‘murder’ or ‘kill.’ Still, it was plain that they meant some measure of harm. I spoke with the troupe leader as well as the housekeeper, but without a name for either man, there was little that could be done.”
Sophia set the woman’s cup down quickly then reached for her reticule. “Was one this man?” she asked, pulling the sketch from her bag and showing it to Miss Pemble.
“The very one!” the woman exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You are clever, just like your mother.”
Nicholas set his untouched tea on the tray. “And you cannot remember his name?”
The imitation French Empire clock on the mantel struck three. “I am sorry but you really must go,” Miss Pemble replied, struggling to stand.
“His name, aunt,” Sophia urged, stuffing the sketch back inside her reticule and going to Miss Pemble’s aid.
The older woman accepted Sophia’s arm and allowed her to help her up. “Whose name?”
“The man in the sketch.”
“Oh yes, that man,” she answered, pulling Sophia toward the door. “He was just in the paper last week; or perhaps last month. I cannot remember his name now. I will think on it and have it for you when you call tomorrow.”
Nicholas rose and stalked after the women, with Singh close behind. “We cannot come back tomorrow, Miss Pemble. It is impossible.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, turning on her heels with lightning speed. “You cannot deny me the company of my one and only relation. She is my niece,” Miss Pemble wailed, her arms beginning to flail about as though she were drowning. “And I was going to order a special afternoon performance—just for you. Do you think my director would do that for just anyone?”
Her voice grew louder, the blood rushing to her face from the effort. Her eyes widened, gleaming with anger. “The answer is no! And now look what you’ve done. I should be resting my voice and reviewing my lines. Instead you’ve upset me greatly.”
Nicholas shifted, inserting his broad bulk between Sophia and Miss Pemble. “I did not mean to upset you,” he assured the distraught woman in a soothing voice. The sound of someone working the lock outside eased his frayed nerves. “We will come tomorrow. I promise.”
Michael pushed the door open and entered the room, his twisted grin focused on Miss Pemble. “Come now, Maggie. Do calm yourself. You’ve a performance this evening and we can’t have you losing your voice. Say good-bye to your visitors.”
Miss Pemble stopped flailing her arms and quieted at the sound of Michael’s voice. “Until tomorrow,” she said to the three, her brain clearly addled from the outburst. And then she bowed an elegant, actorly curtsy that made her erratic behavior seem that much more surreal.
“Wait for me in the hall,” Michael ordered them calmly.
Nicholas gently pushed Sophia through the open door. He gestured for Singh to go next, then followed, stepping over the threshold.
“Do you know, Michael, she looks just as my dear sister Rosamund did at her age. Such a pretty girl, she was. But I had all the talent …”
Nicholas pushed the door closed and prayed for the strength to return again tomorrow.
“Thank you, Jamie. That will be all.”
The orderly bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him and locking it.
The Bishop held his candelabra aloft, illuminating the room. And, more specifically, the elderly woman
asleep in the narrow iron bed.
He crossed to her, not relishing the task before him. But business was business. And Maggie Pemble threatened his livelihood simply by being alive and occasionally lucid.
Quietly setting the candelabra on a small side table, he sat next to Maggie on the mattress.
She had aged considerably since he’d last seen her. No more than fifteen or twenty years his senior, the faded actress looked more like thirty or forty years older than he. Her hair had gone completely white and her skin looked as though someone had taken a piece of parchment, crumpled it in their fist, then smoothed it out again, leaving a web of fine wrinkles.
The Bishop watched her sleep and felt a sick sense of nostalgia. Maggie Pemble had been bold enough to attempt blackmail, going so far as to offer him her body if he exposed the man who had killed Lady Afton. They would be partners, he and Maggie. She’d painted a pretty picture of what they could do with the money they’d receive once the man responsible for the murder was dangling on their hook.
She’d had no idea of the powerful people backing him, of course. But he’d suspected that even if she had, the fierce woman still would have attempted some scheme.
And he’d always admired her for it.
Maggie turned on her side toward him and slowly opened her eyes. “Is it morning?” she asked, as if she were expecting him.
“No, Maggie. It’s the middle of the night. Don’t trouble yourself,” he replied, reaching out and giving her arm a reassuring pat.
She smiled in thanks. “Good. I am yet in need of rest,” she said. Then a sudden smudge of concern tarnished her soft, pale features. “Tell me, who are you? And why are you here at such an hour?”
“You do not remember me?” the Bishop asked, surprised, and yet, not completely.
“Should I?” Maggie countered, squinting as she attempted to make out the features of his face for any familiarity.
He’d done this to her. The Afton murder was early in his career and he had not known the true nature of the men when he’d agreed to work for them. At least, not the full extent of what they’d done and to whom. Even so, it had been his decision to take up with the organization and it had made him a very rich man.
The Scoundrel Takes a Bride Page 22