“Wynchester,” he said, taking full advantage of the intimacy the duke had just granted, “Lady Vaile is mine.” He laid bare the full intent and power of his emotion in his eyes. “She may not be by my side, but I will not leave hers. If that means I can no longer hold your county’s seat, then I will resign.”
“Ah,” the duke interrupted. He stretched his fingers wide and pressed their tips together in front of his lips, shrouding his contemplation. “That besotted, are you?”
Was losing his seat the worst, truly?
Nothing would compare to losing Lavinia again.
He had worked hard on Burke’s bill and more. But others would carry on the work. He’d fulfilled his promise to Eustace—Wynchester was recovered from grief and had allies to spare in Parliament. What more need Max prove to the world? He’d already made his fortune. He’d claim Lavinia as his wife and discover distinctions of a personal nature.
…If Lavinia would have him after the ultimatum he had given her last night.
“A woman like her—” Wynchester started.
“Careful, Your Grace.” He let his voice fall away. He would not be goaded into speaking a full threat.
A younger but otherwise perfect replica of Geste appeared at the door. Beside him stood the servant charged with recording the court proceedings. The younger Geste made the introduction and then returned to his duties.
“What news?” Max asked.
“The coroner’s court delivered a verdict of person or persons unknown.”
Max slammed the desk. “Thank God.”
The duke’s gaze grew speculative. “The magistrate is still on the hunt. Lady Vaile could be arrested, anyway.”
“Possibly,” the servant said, “but not likely. The surgeon testified he did not believe the wound was caused by a lady’s flintlock. The ball that killed Vaile was bigger than a ball made for a lady’s flintlock…and scarred.”
“How extraordinary,” the duke said. “What has scarring to do with anything?”
“I did not understand myself,” the servant replied, “so I spoke to the surgeon after and he explained. Barrels of muskets are spiral-etched, commonly called rifling. The etchings cause the ball to spin, resulting in a more accurate aim but also scarring the ball.”
“Wouldn’t the housekeeper have seen a musket in the hands of the person fleeing?”
“Confidentially, the surgeon told me he suspects the murderer used a dueling pistol.”
Max’s mind raced with possibilities. “A dueling pistol with rifling would have to be made special,” he said.
“And would be downright unsporting,” the duke added. “Far fewer men would duel if they could not trust that one weapon was not more accurate than the next.”
“Yes,” Max replied with a smile. “A gunsmith might remember a commission requesting rifling in a dueling pistol.” Yet another road to explore.
Young Geste appeared again, this time red with agitation. “Pardon my interruption, Your Grace, but a woman wishes to see Mr. Harrison. She is most insistent.”
The duke arched his brow and sucked in his lip. “I will allow you one more interruption, Harrison. One.”
Geste stepped aside to reveal Lavinia’s maid, Maggie. She was trembling and wet with perspiration.
“What is it, Maggie?” Max asked through his closing throat.
“There’s a riot brewing,” she said in a breathy burst. “Cits are crowding the square in front of Lady Vaile’s home.”
Max stood. The duke remained seated.
“I am certain the disturbance is small,” the duke declared. “Geste, send word to the constable.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Maggie said hesitantly. “They’re throwing rocks. I fear much worse.”
“I should go—” Max started.
“What are you going to do,” Wynchester interrupted, “Disperse the crowd yourself?” The duke frowned as Maggie sniffed. “You. Stop your tears. Do you know what started this?”
She cast a crumpled sheet on the duke’s desk. Max smoothed the edges and examined the drawing.
Damn.
“Please come, Mr. Harrison. The crowd is yelling ‘Murderess’.”
“She may well be one.” The duke clucked and shuffled his papers.
Maggie shot daggers from her eyes and would have shocked the brocaded breeches straight away from the duke’s illustrious arse had he seen her expression. She cleared her throat and twisted into a saucy pose—a pose definitely not that of a servant, especially not a servant in the presence of a duke.
“Come, Mr. Harrison,” she said, defiantly, “and you too, duke.” She trembled with the intensity of all-out rage. “Bring your strongest footmen.”
“Just why would I want to do that?” The duke raised his eyes to Maggie without raising his face.
“Because, Your Grace, Lady Vaile is not alone. Lady Sophia and the duchess—your duchess—are trapped inside the house.”
Wynchester’s hands balled. He stood so fast his chair fell to the floor with an echoing crack.
“Hell,” he cursed. “Geste, bring round the carriage—and send for the militia immediately.” The duke strode to the door, his eyes alight with fear. “What are you waiting for, Harrison? Let’s go. Now!”
…
Inside the servants’ quarters, Lavinia wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Drops of perspiration wet her fingers as she inhaled air thick with heat and the tart scent of unwashed linen.
The sliver of a room could barely fit Sophia, Thea, and herself, but five stories of brick protected the view from the dormer. Shouts, though less piercing, still managed to leak through the walls.
Lavinia sunk onto one of the two small beds that lined either wall. The knotted rope supporting the mattress squeaked under her weight.
“Coming up here was not a good idea,” the duchess murmured for the third time. Thea leaned against the cracked plaster of the unadorned wall farthest from the window.
“Any sign of the militia?” Lavinia asked.
Thea shrank by the minute, curling herself into an ever-tightening ball, her tenuous hold on composure weakening. Something must be done—and fast.
Sophia pressed her back against the dormer to see as far as she could down the road. “No.”
Lavinia cursed her lack of judgment. She should have known Vaile House would pose a risk to her friends. Because of her, they suffered. Had the duchess stayed home, she would not be reliving the Gordon Riots. Sophia, on the other hand, showed no sign of upset. Then again, she never did. The earl, Lavinia surmised, would not have allowed his daughter to show fear.
Lavinia chewed on her lip as her heart beat wildly. She—like her mother—had been raised in wealth and luxury. But her father’s grit must lie somewhere in her soul.
She was lady of this house, not Sophia. She could not wait for a rescue that may or may not arrive in time. She stood on shaky feet and placed her hand to her stomach.
When her father had vowed to stop the riot outside his brewery, her mother had begged him to stay home and to allow the proper authorities to handle the masses. Her father had replied, “No, the brewery is my responsibility.”
She stepped toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Thea asked.
Lavinia hesitated. If she said she planned to face the crowd, Sophia would bar the door.
“I am going to see if the housekeeper has returned.”
“She shows you nothing but hostility. Leave her be,” Thea said.
“Nonetheless, she is my responsibility.” Lavinia tilted up her chin. “I will return shortly. Sophia, will you keep watch?”
Sophia sucked in her lips as she regarded Lavinia. “I will,” she said finally.
Lavinia walked her hand along the wall as she descended the staircase. The narrow servants’ stair gave way to wider family stairs. Finally, she reached the opulently carved center stair. She paused on the top step. The windows above the door showed a blur of angry faces.
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She took a deep breath and swallowed past the blockage wadding in her throat. Step by step, she descended.
The rioters were angry at injustice. She was merely today’s symbol of excess and privilege. To them, the ton had wealth and ease and used them for naught but securing further wealth and ease.
Her father had not been born to the gentry. In part, she understood.
She wished she could remember how her father had calmed the people during the brewery riot. She wished she had paid attention to his stories. He had stopped disaster from becoming tragedy. She could do no less for her friends, who were innocent.
Her breath came in short, fast pants. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. She must make the crowd see that she was not a murdering monster, but a living, breathing person.
Oh Papa, how did you calm an angry crowd? How?
Silence reigned in her heart but she refused to give up seeking. Then, with gentle unfolding, inspiration dawned.
Discard signs of wealth.
The order came from her heart, cloaked in the remembered tones of her father’s voice. With a stone face, she twisted off her ruby ring. She removed the rest of her jewelry and peered into the mirror above the hall’s fireplace.
Humble yourself.
One by one she removed the pins from her glossy curls. Long strands fell about her shoulders. With her hair unbound, she just might shock the crowd enough for her to speak. She frowned at her reflection. The crowd would be able to smell any insincerity—and then her plan would backfire. She could be hurt…or worse.
How could she command their attention? How could she make them see her as a grieving widow? She rested her elbow against the mantle and cradled her face in the crook of her arm. Small chunks of coal remained in the fireless hearth below.
She went down on her knees by the fire grate and rubbed her hands in the dark gray dust. She wiped her palms over her cheeks. She rose and looked again to the mirror. An ashen face with frightened eyes stared back.
Show no fear.
The crowd would seize fear and twist it into guilt. She must show grief instead. Could she? Was she a grieving widow? Did she mourn Vaile?
She had hated him. She still hated him.
Could she mourn him, though? She thought of his face, not as it had been when twisted by loathing or malice, but as he had appeared when he’d taken possession of a new piece for his collection. His eyes would wrinkle and he’d quite literally leap: boyish, thrilled. He’d been such a child…a spoiled, selfish child.
Who could he have been, if Monte had not always been by his side? If his father had not been consumed with his poetry or his uncle, the marquess, with his Methodism?
Who could he have been if, in short, he’d learned courage?
Yes, his death brought her a measure of relief. Still, a life cut short left a melancholy wake—any life cut short. Her heart pinched with pity for the man he could have been.
She closed her eyes and thought of the phrases he so often used: boring mediocrity, plebeian morality. What had he been seeking? She had never understood.
In truth, she’d never tried.
She sighed. She could not summon true grief. As Thea often said, reasons for a person’s faults do not excuse a failure of character. But they’d both been young. If she made it through this day, she would have the chance to become a better person.
Vaile would not.
She turned away from the mantle. Pity and sadness would have to pass for the grief she could not summon.
One last hesitation stood in her way. Max. If the worst happened, would he understand why she placed herself in danger? Even though there was no way for them to be together, would he understand that he did hold—and always had held—her heart?
He had told her she cared little for herself. He wasn’t exactly right. She was afraid with a bone-deep fear, but she wanted to live. She wanted beauty and meaning and love. She wanted them for herself, for Sophia, and for Thea, and she wanted them enough to fight this battle and win.
He will understand.
She marched to the door, lowered her chin, and yanked.
The sun momentarily blinded her. The crowd hushed as she raised her hand to shade her eyes. The mass strained against the iron fence, forcing those in front against the pointed metal balusters. Her knees wobbled.
“I am Lady Vaile.” God give me strength.
Chapter Fourteen
One by one, Lavinia met the eyes of the people standing at the fore.
“There are women within this home—frightened women who do not deserve to be subjected to your taunts.” Her voice was deep and angry but even. “It is I who stirs your anger, not them. But for their sake, I ask for the chance to speak.” She took a deep breath and continued. “You have seen a print that suggests I murdered my husband. You believe I expect to rise above the law.”
A murmur swelled in the crowd.
She held up her other hand in a plea for silence. She set back her shoulders. “I did not kill my husband.”
She glanced down. A young woman about her age leaned over the iron fence. The woman’s eyes burned with hatred and distrust. Lavinia’s throat dried.
Truth, truth, they need truth.
“I did not like my husband.”
“Who does?” A woman from the middle of the swarm yelled.
Snickers rippled as Lavinia continued, “However, God and law bound me to him. I would not have taken his life.”
“Why should we believe you?” a man asked in a yell.
An expectant hush settled over the people.
Convince them.
Lavinia licked her upper lip and inhaled. “Lord Vaile was a young man who loved”—her voice genuinely cracked—“beauty and art. He should have lived for many years. Someone has cut short his time. That someone should be brought to justice. Only, that someone is not me.”
“She’s a lyin’ nob,” another man yelled.
The young woman hanging over the iron fence looked directly at Lavinia. “She thinks she can get away without paying a price. They all do!”
Faint murmurs of agreement set her pulse to race.
Do not show fear.
She looked deep into the eyes of the young woman and said, “I was born in Thistleton-on-Thames. I am the daughter of a brewer.”
Her heart seared with pain as the image of her father’s laughing eyes sprang into her mind—eyes she’d never see again, but whose certainty, with faith and proper effort, she could muster. She clenched her fist as if pumping strength in her arms could bolster courage.
“In business and in life, my father was a fair and just man. He was not born to privilege and he never expected privilege. Neither does his daughter.”
As the woman at the fence pursed her lips, considering, Lavinia’s eyes caught a flash at the edge of the crowd. A boy, no more than fourteen, held a lighted oil lamp above his head.
They set the house on fire, Thea had said.
She raised her skirts and pushed through the jeering horde, determinedly forcing her way to the boy. As she passed through the throng, the boldest people fingered her hair and pulled at her sleeves. She forged ahead, her heart beating jagged and raw. Her cheeks burned from the fire behind her resolve.
Breathing heavy, she crouched to eye level with the boy. “Throw that and you will start a fire.” She did not dare touch him, but she leaned very close. “Do you understand that people could be killed?”
The boy blinked. “You deserve to burn. You killed your man.”
“I just told you, I did not.”
“Why should we believe you?” The shout came from somewhere behind her.
Lavinia’s confidence wavered. She kept her eyes locked with the boy’s.
“Over my door is a hatchment. Vaile’s coat of arms appears above mine.” Her voice wavered. “Mine is a fiction, created by my father. I was not born to the gentry. I do not expect privilege. Look closely, the hops and the barley represent his brewery.”
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Vaile had used that truth to shame her, but she felt no shame now. She covered her heart with one hand and, with the other, she reached out to the boy.
“Give me that lamp, child.”
“What she says don’t matter now. She’s a lady. Even if they charge her, she will go free.”
Lavinia recognized the voice of the woman from the fence.
“That’s right. She will be tried in Lords—what a laugh,” someone yelled.
Lavinia wrinkled her brow—turn your attention to the minds you can change.
She did have a right to trial in the House of Lords, but only by virtue of her marriage. There had been only two such trials. One lord had been convicted and hung, however, his cruelty and madness had been legendary. The other lord had been convicted of a lesser charge—manslaughter—and had pled privilege, walking away without even the brand a commoner would have had burned into his skin.
She bit her lip. There was only one way she could think of to convince these people of her sincerity.
“I did not kill my husband.” She spoke loud enough for all to hear, but kept looking into the boy’s eyes. “Hand me that lamp and I will make you a promise. If they charge me, I will insist on being treated like the commoner I am.”
Another murmur rose from the gathered people.
“Should I be arrested, I will ask to be taken to Newgate. I will relinquish my right to trial by the House of Lords.”
“Like we believe that!”
Someone spit, and it hit her shoulder. She flinched, but knew she could show no rage.
Resolve, only resolve.
“Let her have her trial and be convicted!”
“She cannot choose to give up her privilege. Bring her to justice now.”
“Innocent people are inside,” she repeated. “Please. For them, if not for me.”
The boy lowered his lamp and frowned. His expression grew pained. He blew out the flame.
“You ain’t the bitch he said you were,” the boy said.
“Who?” She asked, blinking. Montechurch could have hired people to rouse anger.
Pain exploded as a small rock hit her right temple. She cried out and covered her face. Arguments broke out through the crowd, too numerous to make sense. Some defended, some condemned. She tried to remember the direction of home, but the side of her head throbbed and the earth started to spin.
Lady Vice Page 11