Truth and Beauty (His Majesty's Theatre Book 3)

by Christina Britton Conroy

  She looked surprised and his smile broadened.

  “Yes, you can even entertain your new friends: the London thespians, even that foolish painter, anyone at all.”

  She waited, terrified to hear the conditions.

  “All you have to do is obey me, absolutely.”

  Absolutely? He had nearly broken her wrist when she refused to kiss him. Aunt Lillian just said that he would beat her bloody. She gasped, whispering, “What do I have to do?”

  “Good, good. That’s better.” He let her go and she collapsed against the bookcase. He looked her in the eye, grinning with yellow teeth. “My demands will be no different from those of any husband’s. You must be the lady of my house, a hostess to my guests, cheer me when I am gloomy, allow me privacy when I require it, show respect and affection at all times, be always genteel, always agreeable, never contradict, never be cross or shrewish, and above all - never cry. I cannot abide a woman who cries. Since you are so fond of playing and singing, you may entertain me and my guests.”

  He stopped. His lips pulled into a tight smile. “Your most important commission will be to give me sons, while of course, servicing my needs in the bedroom. I will not be one of those husbands who visits his wife’s boudoir, once a week, with the lights off. Even to experienced women, my pleasures seem somewhat… unusual. Knowing you as well as I do, I expect you will resist me. You have a strong will. Breaking it will be a challenge and a pleasure.”

  She started to cry and held her breath to stop it.

  “Good, good! You do know how to obey.” His harsh whisper became even softer. “You must never cry.”

  The spasms of her sobs’ were driven inward and her chest heaved soundlessly.

  “We will have a vast fortune, my dear.” Her eyes went wide and he smiled. “As you so aptly pointed out, it is your money, but it will soon be mine. You will need a manager, in any event. Women are incapable of managing their own affairs.”

  Elly’s chest heaved. If she could not release her tears, she would explode.

  “But what is the good of money, if a man has no sons to spend it on, hmm?”

  She shuddered.

  “I am no longer a young man, and I have a strong desire to have sons. So, you must give me sons.”

  Her cheeks burned. Her corset stays pierced like knives.

  “I want three, at least. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, clenching her teeth.

  “Good! After you have given me three sons, if we are not totally happy with one another, we may come to an arrangement. We may even live apart.” She looked up quickly and he laughed. “I see that idea appeals to you. Do you dislike me so much, then?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  He laughed again. “No matter.” He walked back, toward Roundtree.

  Heart racing, she frantically calculated. I could have three sons in three years, and be rid of him, forever. Or I might have daughters. What if I can’t conceive at all? She whispered, “Sir John?”

  He turned to see her trembling. “Yes, my dear?”

  Her body heaved like a locomotive. “What if…”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I cannot do all that you require?” The tears poured out, as her head fell back against the wall.

  His eyes narrowed. “Then, I must teach you how to obey me. And while you are learning, you will give me sons.”

  “And, if I cannot give you sons?”

  He shrugged casually. “Well, if you are not capable of performing you marital duties, you will have to be replaced. Once your estate belongs to me, little else matters. It would be a shame if a young, beautiful woman, like yourself, was to meet with a tragic accident, but such things happen every day.” Turning away, he stepped past Roundtree, leaned against a windowsill, crossed his arms, and smiled. “Eighteen-years-ago, Charles Roundtree met with a tragic accident. It was childishly simple for me to arrange.”

  She stared at him.

  “And now, my dear. Your father is waiting. Come sign the paper.”

  As if in a trance, she crossed the room, signed the paper, dropped the pen on the floor, and walked toward the dolls’ house where her aunt was standing. The two women watched in silence as Roundtree retrieved the pen and pointed it at the priest. “Sign this!”

  Father Folen, white faced and shaking, looked at Elly. She was pale as a corpse.

  Roundtree roared, “None of your games, priest. Sign!”

  Father Folen shook his head. “I won’t do it. Not again. I sinned, unlawfully marrying you to this child’s mother.”

  Roundtree took out his revolver and aimed it at the priest. “I was afraid you might turn righteous one day.” He cocked the gun and put his finger on the trigger.

  “You can kill me, sir. I won’t do it.”

  Still looking at the priest, Roundtree walked to his cowering sister. “Oh, but I won’t kill you.” He put an arm around Lillian and pointed the gun at her head. She closed her eyes and held her breath. Roundtree smirked, “What do you say now, Reverend? Now will you sign?”

  Father Folen held up his hands. “Move the gun away from the lady, sir. Please!”

  “First, sign!”

  There was frantic knocking on the door.

  Roundtree bellowed, “Go away!”

  A frightened voice called, “Pardon me, sir, but there are detectives from Scotland Yard downstairs. They say the matter is urgent.”

  Roundtree froze. His eyes were wild. He yelled back, “Sir John’s car is out front. Tell the driver to bring it around the back and keep the motor running. I’ll be down directly.”

  Without warning, Father Folen flew at Roundtree, pushing Lillian out of the way. With a deafening explosion, the gun went off. Elly pulled up her hoopskirt, ran across the room, and hurled herself against Sir John, driving him against the window, through the shattering glass. He howled, plunging down toward the hard ground below. His feet flew up and one boot caught in a hoop of Elly’s skirt, pulling her through the window after him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Outside, looking up into the bedroom, Sam ran back from a hail of shattered glass. The car drove around the house, shining bright headlights, illuminating the area. The driver swerved, then stopped violently as Garingham flew through the window like a great bat. His frock coat blew open, as his arms and legs splayed in four directions. The illusion of wings did nothing to slow his back dive, head first into the hard ground.

  Sam yelled, “NO!” as the white mass of Elly’s gown sailed after him. Garingham hit the ground with a terrible crunching sound and lay still. Dark blood gushed over the moist earth, surrounding his head like a gruesome halo.

  Elly stopped in mid-air. Sam blinked his eyes. In uneven beams from the car headlights, she looked like a ghost hovering. For a split second, he wondered if the shot had killed her, and he was watching her soul ascend to a higher plane. He ran up to the house and saw that her gown had caught on the trellis. She hung almost upside down, desperately trying to free herself. Her corset kept her from bending at the waist and reaching the hoop, caught above.

  Sam made a running jump up the trellis. Grabbing hold, he forced the toes of his boots through the thick rose canes. He strained, making his way up, until he was beside Elly. With one arm, he seized the captive hoop, and pulled on it with his full weight. Her gown ripped free as the entire trellis gave way, crashing them both to the ground. Sam landed on his back with Elly and the trellis on top of him. He moaned with pain.

  Anthony Roundtree had dropped the gun, unlocked the bedroom door, dashed down the backstairs, and outside, past Sam and Elly.

  Sam lifted his chin. “REX! AFTER HIM!” The howling dog lunged after Roundtree. The man’s eyes were wild with fear. Rex leapt from behind and knocked him face down onto the muddy grass. Roundtree twisted into a terrified ball, as Rex’s vicious teeth kept him prisoner.

  Upstairs, Father Folen lay in a pool of blood, a bullet in his neck. Lillian Roundtree knelt beside him, sobbing.

 
The gunshot had sent Chief-Inspector Hayes, his sergeant, and several servants racing up the front stairs. The Chief-Inspector reached the bedroom and stared at the priest’s bloody body. “Call a doctor!” A servant sped out the door.

  Lillian cried, “Tony killed him. Tony shot Father Folen.”

  The Chief-inspector sped to the shattered window, looked down, and saw Roundtree attacked by a large dog. He ran back out, past the body. “How do I get outside?”

  “This way, sir.” A servant led him down the backstairs and around the side of the house. The dog held Roundtree captive. When Rex saw the officers, he stopped barking, but stayed in position, teeth bared, haunches tense, ready to spring.

  The sergeant slowly approached. “Easy boy. Good dog.”

  Gasping painfully, Sam called, “REX! COME! GOOD BOY!” Whining frantically, Rex ran circles around the pile of rubble containing Elly and Sam.

  The sergeant pulled Roundtree to his feet. The Chief-Inspector yanked his arms behind his back and clamped handcuffs around his wrists. “Anthony Roundtree: I’m arresting you for embezzlement, and the murder of a priest.”

  A host of servants carefully pulled Elly and Sam from the thorny rose-canes, fishing line, dress hoops, and the trellis.

  *

  Within the hour, Doctor Frederick Vickers was seeing to their wounds. He gave Sam an injection of morphine and went to check on Elly. She was stretched out on the drawing room sofa, wrapped in a soft dressing gown. Pillows were under her head and a blanket over her legs. Her skin was ashen and her breathing shallow. The shredded wedding dress, bent skirt hoops, and corset stays were piled on the floor.

  Isabelle watched as the doctor examined Elly’s injuries.

  Relieved, he smiled and nodded. “Miss Roundtree, you are a very lucky young lady. You’ve got some nasty bruises and your ankle is badly sprained. You’ll need to stay off that for at least a fortnight.” He chuckled softly. “I believe corsets to be the most ungodly garments ever created, but that one did you good. It held you together and may have saved your life. You’ll feel very sore for the next few days. Tomorrow you’ll feel worse that you do right now. Just remember,” he shook his finger, “stay off that ankle.” A servant brought her a cup of hot soup. The doctor gave Elly a comforting pat on the hand, nodded respectfully to Isabelle, and went downstairs to check on Sam.

  Lethargic from the morphine, Sam lay on a kitchen table, quietly moaning. His right arm was stretched at an odd angle.

  Isabelle followed Dr. Vickers, and watched as he gently probed Sam’s chest.

  “Mr. Smelling, your right arm has a bad break. At least two ribs are cracked, and there may be internal injuries as well. I’m going to set that arm, and it’s going to hurt. The morphine will help, but you’ll feel this, so I apologize in advance.”

  Without further warning, the doctor snapped Sam’s bone into place. Sam screamed, then slumped back, unconscious. Isabelle raced to his left side and gently stroked his forehead. The doctor poured dry plaster into a basin of water. In seconds, he began forming a cast around Sam’s right arm.

  Sam moaned softly, and Isabelle whispered, “I’m so terribly sorry, Sam. Smythe’s note was misplaced, then the solicitors were held up by a sloppy clerk. Chief-Inspector Hayes was delayed by another case.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Bleary-eyed, Sam held out his left arm. She took his hand, and he kissed her fingers. “Why are you crying?” He looked into Isabelle’s blue eyes, now soft with tears. The drug made his limbs feel heavy and slurred his speech. “You probably saved Elly’s life. If she hadn’t learned about her family, she would never have had the gumption to push that bastard out the window.”

  Isabelle squeezed his hand. “The poor child thinks she murdered him.”

  “If she hadn’t done it to him, he might have done it to her. I love happy endings.” He relaxed his grip and drifted off to sleep.

  Isabelle gently pulled her hand away, wiped her eyes and looked at the doctor. “He’s half dead, and calls it a happy ending.” She shook her head and glanced under the table. Rex had fallen asleep, a chewing bone in his teeth.

  She turned and saw a group of servants huddled in the corner. A large older woman was scowling. Isabelle walked over and spoke softly. “Are you the cook?”

  “Yes, My Lady.” The elderly woman looked down, then made an awkward curtsy on large feet. “Mrs. Johnson’s m’ name.”

  “Well, Mrs. Johnson, if my cook had her kitchen turned into an infirmary at a moment’s notice, she’d be very cross indeed… especially when there were such wonderful plans for tomorrow.”

  The cook nodded sadly. “Won’t be haven’ n’ party now, ma’am. Not wi’ t’ master…” She shook her head.

  “No, Mrs. Johnson. Surely no one expected this evening to end the way it did.”

  The servants looked bleakly at each other. Some of the women sobbed quietly.

  Isabelle sadly smiled at each one, in turn. “Constable Wright is arranging distribution of the wonderful food you’ve all prepared. It would be a crime to waste it.”

  “Aye, yer right about that. Thank ‘ee, My Lady.” She curtsied again and turned to her staff. “Nothin’ to do ‘ere, then. Off y’ go now, double-time.” The servants scurried away.

  Only Mary the serving maid remained. She had never seen a titled lady and spoke with a tremor in her voice. “P’ Pardon, My Lady.”

  “Yes?”

  She starred at Sam. “Will ‘e be alright, then?”

  “The doctor said his arm should heal. He’s not sure about internal injuries.”

  Mary nodded, then sniffed back tears.

  Isabelle was surprised. “Do you know each other?”

  “Aye, M’ Lady. We met this afternoon.”

  “Well, he’s sleeping now. Do you want to sit with him?”

  “Oh, may I, M’ Lady? May I, please?”

  “Of course.”

  Mary silently placed a chair next to Sam and sat down.

  Wondering how Sam made this girl fall in love with him that fast, Isabelle went upstairs to the drawing room.

  Elly’s empty soup mug was by her side. Chief-Inspector Hayes sat beside her. His short grey hair and thick moustache were slightly mussed, his eyes were red, and he looked exhausted. His notebook lay opened on a tea-table and he impatiently tapped his pencil on the polished wood.

  “Miss Roundtree, please let me be the judge of what is or is not relevant. Please, let’s go over this again.”

  Desperate for sleep, Elly closed her eyes. “I’ve already told you everything.”

  The Chief-Inspector spoke softly and distinctly. “Sir John was leaning against the window. The glass was loose and he fell…”

  “I pushed him…”

  “Miss Roundtree!” He jumped to his feet and saw Isabelle in the doorway. “Thank goodness! Lady Richfield, I need your assistance. Please take my chair.” He turned back. Elly’s eyes were closed. “Please, Miss Roundtree, you must not sleep. Not just yet. I do not mean to distress you…”

  Isabelle hurried over. “You seem to be distressing her a great deal. Chief-Inspector, if you could finish with my ward as soon as possible, I would be very grateful.”

  At the word “ward,” Elly’s eyes flew open.

  He spoke quietly. “I hope to finish momentarily, M’ Lady, but please, sit down. There is something vitally important we must all resolve, right now.”

  Isabelle trusted the Chief-Inspector. He was a caring and compassionate professional. She sat down and waited.

  He pulled over another chair, sat heavily, and rubbed his tired eyes. Collecting his thoughts, he weighed the possible consequences of what he was about to do. Exchanging blind-justice for reasonable-mercy, he turned to Elly. “Miss Roundtree, you have just been through a terrible ordeal. Tonight, in your presence, two men were killed.”

  Elly tried to sit up, but pain in her shoulder pulled her back. “I didn’t see Father Folen… I only heard the shot. Then I ran…”

 
He held up a hand. “You ran to help you fiancé.”

  Both women looked confused.

  Leaning into them, he spoke very softly and slowly. “The gunshot startled your fiancé, causing him to fall back through the loose window glass.” Elly shook her head, and the Chief-Inspector gently touched her arm. “Miss Roundtree. Sir John told you that he was responsible for your father’s death.”

  She nodded.

  “He also told you, that he was marrying you only for your estate.”

  She whispered, “He also wanted sons. I told you…” The memory of his threat was so vivid, she wanted to cry.

  “And, what do you suppose would have happened to you, even if you had done your duty, and produced his sons?”

  “He said…”

  “Would you still have been useful to him? Or would you merely have been a constant reminder of his murderous past?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  The Chief-Inspector rubbed his forehead. “This afternoon, Lady Richfield told me that she feared for your life. I believe her fears were well founded.”

  Isabelle squeezed Elly’s hand. “Thank God, you’re safe.”

  The Chief-Inspector nodded. “Yes, Miss Roundtree. You are safe, because you defended yourself against your potential murderer.” Both women looked pale, as he continued. “Although we three know this to be true…” Leaning in even closer, he gave himself a moment, deciding that the brutal truth would be best. “In a court of law,” he took a deep breath, “a jury of arrogant men, who believe that women are chattel, might believe that a woman responsible for the death -- of even the worst scoundrel -- should be hanged.”

  Both women stared at him. Elly blurted out. “He fell back through the loose window glass. I ran to help him and I fell as well. It wasn’t my fault.” Now terrified, she stared at the Chief-Inspector.

  Grateful for an excuse to move, Isabelle fumbled in her sleeve and found a handkerchief. “It’s a tragedy. This was to be the poor child’s wedding day. Anyone can see that she’s heartbroken.”