She set the tray down with a thunk. “But John, think what you are saying!” she said cajolingly. “You know me, you’ve courted me, you’ve kissed me! Even if I had the opportunity, as you say, why should I do such a thing?”
“Because Sir Reginald was your father,” Pickett replied. “I know you follow the Society pages faithfully. It must have been hard, reading about your half-sister—who looks very much like you, by the bye—marrying the heir to a dukedom with all pomp and ceremony at St. George’s, Hanover Square while you were reduced to earning your living as a housemaid.”
She brushed past Lady Dunnington and Lord Rupert Latham, then slipped her hand through Pickett’s arm and looked up at him with huge, pleading eyes. “But John, even if it were true, you wouldn’t arrest me, would you? You couldn’t—you love me!”
Pickett, in agony, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dulcie.”
Her hand fell from his arm, and she stepped back as if stung. “I see what it is!” Her soft, coaxing voice grew shrill and accusing. “It’s her, isn’t it? You wouldn’t let her hang when it was her neck about to be stretched! Are you really such a fool as to believe she’ll ever love you in return? She’s been using you all along!”
“You would know best about that,” replied Pickett, pale but resolute. “But Sir Reginald wouldn’t let you use him, would he?”
“All I wanted was a settlement, enough to let me live in comfort,” Dulcie insisted, her voice rising on a note of hysteria. “When he came to dinner that night, I told him who my mother had been, and that he had an obligation to me. He told me I was entitled to nothing. Nothing! Not even a paltry five pounds a month, when I’ll bet his other daughter’s wedding gown cost ten times that amount! When I took Mr. Kenney’s coat a few minutes later, I felt the gun in his pocket, and thought I could persuade my dear father to change his mind.”
Mr. Kenney made a convulsive movement at the mention of his name, but neither he nor any of the other guests made any sound. No one dared interrupt the scene being played out before them.
“I took the gun, just as you guessed, and put the porcelain figurine in its place in the hope that Mr. Kenney wouldn’t notice it was gone. Then when Sir Reginald left, I confronted him in the hall. When he refused me again, I pointed the gun at him. He laughed at me.” She gave a short, bitter laugh of her own. “He’s not laughing now.”
Pickett made a silent signal in the direction of the foot patrol, and both men came forward and took Dulcie by the arms. She shrugged them off.
“Yes, I’ll come peacefully, but there’s something I must do first.”
Pickett nodded, and they released her.
She gave him a long, steady look. “Something to remember me by.”
She seized his cravat and dragged his head down, then pressed her mouth to his. He could not bring himself to return her kiss (especially not with Lady Fieldhurst watching), but he allowed it. He owed her that much, as an apology for the demands of duty and the wayward heart that was no longer his to give.
“Goodbye, John.” She darted a smug, triumphant glance at Lady Fieldhurst, then took the arms of the waiting foot patrol like a lady accepting the escort of two rival suitors and allowed them to lead her from the room.
The little drama concluded, the assembled company sat in stunned silence for a long moment, until at last Lord Rupert Latham rose to his feet with lithe grace. “Accept my compliments, Mr. Pickett,” he said with grudging admiration. “That cannot have been easy for you. Of course, she might have borne the loss of your fickle affections more easily had she only known—what we both know.”
Pickett, utterly drained, collapsed onto his chair without responding at all, not even blushing. A hand fell softly on his shoulder, and he looked up to find Lady Fieldhurst standing beside him offering a glass of sherry. He accepted it gratefully and tossed it off in one gulp.
Lord Edwin Braunton and Mr. Kenney exchanged brief nods, then rose as one. “Best be pushing off,” said Lord Edwin, obviously speaking for both of them. “We leave at first light for Leicestershire, you know.”
Pickett summoned a smile. “I did not, sir, but I wish you both well. Please give my best regards to Miss Braunton.”
“I will.” Lord Edwin lowered his voice. “And if all goes well, I’ll be sending you a small token of my appreciation. I realize playing matchmaker is not part of your duties.”
“That won’t be necessary, my lord,” Pickett protested. “I am happy to have been of service.”
“I must be on my way back to the barracks.” Following the others’ example, Captain Sir Charles Ormond heaved himself to his feet. “Not that it wasn’t fascinating, Mr. Pickett, but I can’t quite see why my presence—or anyone else’s, for that matter”—he made a sweeping gesture that took in the entire company—“was necessary.”
“I’m afraid I must plead guilty there,” said Lord Dernham, addressing himself to the captain. “I told Mr. Pickett I wanted to be informed as to the identity of the person—although I believe I said ‘man’ at the time—who avenged my wife’s death.”
“Since most of you have been suspects at one time or another, it is only natural that you should all want to know,” Pickett said. “But it was rather more complicated than that. It was a footman from a neighboring house who provided the final piece of the puzzle. But he’s been keeping company with Lady Dunnington’s kitchen maid, and I was afraid word would get back to Dulcie that I had solved the case. I didn’t want her to get the wind up, so I asked Lady Dunnington to summon everyone who had been present on that night. I felt certain that, with so many guests expected, Dulcie would not be allowed to leave even if she requested permission to do so.”
“Was that the reason?” demanded Lady Dunnington. “And here I thought—” She broke off abruptly.
“What did you think, Emily?” asked her husband.
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Then there was the fact that I had absolutely no proof,” Pickett continued. “My only hope was to persuade her to confess, and if she did, I would need plenty of witnesses.”
Lord Dernham sighed. “I can’t help feeling sorry for that unhappy young woman. It would be useless, I daresay, to offer to pay for her defense counsel since she has acknowledged her own guilt, but I feel I must make the gesture. You will inform her, Mr. Pickett?”
Pickett nodded. He would send word to her, informing her of Lord Dernham’s offer, but he had no desire to see Dulcie again. He would be obliged to do so all too soon, at her trial.
One by one the guests took their leave, until at last only the Dunningtons, Lady Fieldhurst, and Pickett remained.
“Thank God that’s over!” Lady Dunnington leaped to her feet and began pacing restlessly about the room. “I can see I will need to use more caution in the future when choosing a new lover—or hiring a new housemaid, for that matter.”
Lord Dunnington cleared his throat. “About this lover, Emily. Might I make a suggestion?”
Startled, she ceased her pacing. He joined her before the fire and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Instead of a new lover, would you perhaps consider an old husband?”
Her lower lip trembled. “What are you saying, Dunnington?”
“I’ve missed you very much, my dear. Maybe it’s time you came back home.”
To the utter astonishment of her audience, Lady Dunnington cast herself onto her husband’s chest and burst into tears. “Oh, Dunnington! I was so afraid you were going to hang for murder!”
For the next several minutes there was no intelligent conversation at all, the Dunningtons communicating almost entirely in that nonverbal dialogue euphemistically known as billing and cooing. Pickett and Lady Fieldhurst, embarrassed witnesses to this exchange, tried hard not to look at either the Dunningtons or each other. Pickett, however, had an obligation to return to Bow Street and prepare the report he would make to his magistrate the next morning. Seeing no other way of separating the earl and his lady long enou
gh to take formal leave of them, he gave a discreet cough.
Upon hearing it, Lady Dunnington emerged from her husband’s embrace long enough to turn and look at the pair of them, blinking as if surprised to see them standing there. “What, are you still here? Run along, children. Or shall I summon the footman to show you out?”
“I’m sure we can find our own way, Emily,” Lady Fieldhurst said with a smile.
She and Pickett made their way to the hall, where they stopped before the door and regarded one another in rather embarrassed silence.
“Well, there’s one good thing that has come of it,” observed Lady Fieldhurst.
“Yes. It appears to me Sir Reginald did more good dead than he ever did while he was alive.”
“Does it?” she asked in some surprise. “I was under the distinct impression that most of the credit should rightfully go to John Pickett.”
He shrugged. “All they needed was the opportunity to unite against a common enemy—in this case, me.”
“If either of them thinks of you as an enemy, it only shows how little they know you. Am I correct in thinking you never really suspected either of them, but allowed them to believe you did in the hope that this very thing might happen? It was kind of you to take the trouble, Mr. Pickett.”
Pickett smiled rather sheepishly. “If only I could manage my own affairs half so well!”
A shadow crossed her face. “About that girl—Dulcie. You—you lov—” She could not bring herself to say the word. “You cared for her. I am sorry for your sake, Mr. Pickett.”
Pickett considered this thoughtfully. “I am sickened by the waste of a girl’s life, and I feel ten times a fool for being taken in by a trick as old as Eve, but my heart was never really in danger. It—it has not been in my possession for quite some time,” he added ruefully.
The air in the hall suddenly seemed very close, while as for Lord and Lady Dunnington in the next room, they might have been on another planet.
“Will you think me very selfish,” asked Lady Fieldhurst, her voice hardly more than a whisper, “if I say I am glad?”
“Shall I say it, my lady?” He took a step in her direction, but made no move to touch her. “Shall I say it just once, and then speak no more of it?”
“Yes, please,” she said breathlessly.
He let out a long sigh, as if relieved to abandon the unequal struggle. “I’m in love with you, my lady. I have loved you from the moment we met, and my feelings have only grown stronger in the months since. And that, my lady,” he concluded with a regretful little smile, “is why I can never be your lover.”
Her mouth worked, but no words would come. What did one say to such a declaration, when marriage—real marriage—was not an option?
“You need not answer,” he assured her. “I know there is no hope for me, and I am not asking you to return my regard. I know nothing can come of it. I—I will not see you again. I have asked Mr. Colquhoun not to send me into Mayfair on assignment in the future.”
“But—our court appearance—”
He shook his head. “Mr. Colquhoun strongly advises me to be absent in order to avoid any possible charges of perjury, and I think he is probably right. You will send word when—when it’s done?”
She nodded, unable to speak. Dulcie was gone, but he was lost to her all the same.
“My lady, I hope—I hope you will think of your second husband with kindness from time to time. I can assure you that he will never forget you.”
He gave her an uncertain little smile and turned toward the door.
“Mr. Pickett, would you please kiss me?” She had not meant to ask, much less beg, but the words came out in a rush, refusing to be held back.
“My lady, are you trying to torture me?” he asked in mingled exasperation and very deep affection.
“No,” she said miserably. “But I can’t bear seeing you go away with that—that female’s kiss on your lips.”
Pickett apparently saw nothing to dispute in this line of reasoning, for he turned away from the door. He did not take her in his arms, but cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. It was a long kiss, long and slow and agonizingly sweet—and it held goodbye in every brush of his lips, every wisp of his warm breath.
She clutched the lapels of his brown serge coat. “Will you not kiss me like you kissed her?”
Having committed himself this far, Pickett threw caution to the wind. He crushed her to his chest and plundered her mouth with his own. Her hands were pinned between them, but she tugged one free and buried her fingers in his hair, returning his kiss with fervor until at last he drew back, breathless and panting, and released her.
“Goodbye, my lady.”
And then he was gone. Lady Fieldhurst sagged against the door, her heart racing and her legs suddenly unwilling to support her weight. I know there is no hope for me . . . I am not asking you to return my regard . . .
“Oh, but I do,” she whispered. “I do.”
And in a matter of—what? Days? Weeks? Months?—she would have to convince an ecclesiastical court that he was incapable, this virginal man who could make her knees weak with his kisses, who could ravish her with the sound of his voice.
She had a bad feeling about this annulment.
She had a very bad feeling indeed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Readers who have written to me over the years thanking me for the wholesomeness of my books may be a bit shocked by certain events described and/or insinuated in Chapter 17. I’m sorry if this is the case, but in my own defense must refer you to File “Y,” under “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up.” The legal requirements for obtaining an annulment in Regency England were, as far as I was able to ascertain through research, exactly as I have portrayed them here, with one exception: in fact, the couple would be required to live together for three years without consummating the marriage before an annulment could be granted. But since I believe there is such a thing as stretching tension too far (let alone the fact that poor John Pickett had suffered enough), I chose to overlook this prerequisite for the purpose of the story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
At age sixteen, Sheri Cobb South discovered Georgette Heyer, and came to the startling realization that she had been born into the wrong century. Although she doubtless would have been a chambermaid had she actually lived in Regency England, that didn’t stop her from fantasizing about waltzing the night away in the arms of a handsome, wealthy, and titled gentleman.
Since Georgette Heyer was dead and could not write any more Regencies, Ms. South came to the conclusion she would have to do it herself. In addition to the John Pickett mysteries, she has also written several Regency romances.
A native of Alabama, she now lives in Loveland, Colorado. She loves to hear from readers via email at [email protected] or her Facebook author page.
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