The Punishment of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 3)

by Simone, Sierra

  We lay like that for a long time, maybe hours, and when I finally rolled off of her, she was sleeping a pure, deep sleep that I couldn’t bear to disturb. Instead, I went and found a blanket and two more pillows, arranged a makeshift bed for us, and fell asleep, my body wrapped around hers once more.

  I would dream about this night until my dying day, I knew. Nightmares of that terrifying moment his hand had closed over my throat and every latent fear of him had risen to the fore—and then dreams of bliss of the moment he had let go, and life-giving air had flooded into my lungs just as the most intense orgasm I’d ever felt had flooded through my body.

  It had been so Julian. Dangerous and erotic and addictive and even as my eyes fluttered open to the weak rays of dawn and my thoughts flickered to my aunt, I wanted it again. I wanted it all again—the humiliation and the public fucking, the choking and then the sweet and gentle way he had made love to me in the end, all rose perfume and tender, infinitesimal movements.

  But I would get to have it again, I realized as I opened my eyes all the way. We were reunited. We would be married. And nothing, not anything, could separate me from the man I loved again.

  “You don’t have to wake up, wildcat,” Julian said. His voice was sleepy and rough, as though he’d just woken as well. “Let’s stay here forever.”

  I snuggled into him, laying my head on his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. He stroked my back in long, somnolent strokes. “Can we?” I asked, my eyelids already growing heavy.

  “Yes,” he said. “Whatever my wildcat wishes, she shall have.”

  “In that case, perhaps I wish that we were married. Today.”

  I was seized into a tight grip, crushed against his muscled chest. “Then your wish is my command.”

  I tilted my head back so I could look up at him. “And then we can go home?”

  “And then we can go home.” He moved his mouth to mine, kissing me so languorously, so deeply, that my toes were curling by the end of it.

  A loud knock sounded at the door. Mr. Markham frowned.

  “Stay here,” he said, standing and tugging his trousers on. He didn’t bother putting on a shirt.

  He opened the door, and the room was flooded with lamplight. “Are you Julian Markham?” a voice asked.

  I didn’t like that voice. I didn’t like it at all.

  I sat, hoisting the covers up to cover my chest as I did, alarm beginning to drip thinly through my veins. Mr. Markham straightened. “Who the fuck is asking?”

  “Inspector Glemwell, Scotland Yard. You are under arrest for the murder of Violet Leavold.”

  “The fuck I am—”

  Several men now entered the room and I couldn’t see my lover. I stood, not caring what I looked like only wrapped in a blanket. “You can’t take him!” I said. “They didn’t charge him in Yorkshire and you can’t charge him here—”

  “New evidence has come to light,” one of the constables told me matter-of-factly. “An arrest must be made.”

  The men were pushing Mr. Markham out of the door now, and I stepped forward, ready to claw and scratch him free if I had to. The constable who had talked to me grabbed my arm, and I struggled against him, trying to get to my master. My Julian.

  “No,” I said. “No!”

  Julian twisted, every muscle in his stomach tensed, and his green eyes met mine. “I’ll be back, Ivy. I promise. As soon as I can.”

  I shook my head, tears of shock and confusion threatening to spill. “No,” I whispered. “You have to stay here with me.”

  “I promise I’m coming for you,” he said, his eyes burning into mine as if he was trying to keep me safe from all this through sheer force of will. “And I always mean what I say.”

  And then he was gone.

  After a minute, the constable left too, dropping my arm unceremoniously, and I went to the window, watching as the police and Mr. Markham left the house. I don’t know what he had said to them on the way down to the ground floor, but they weren’t holding him now, and he walked alone, ahead of them, shoulders as straight and broad as always. Even with the lack of proper clothes, with the trousers that hung low on his hips and his exposed chest and arms, he looked unbelievably powerful, unbelievably dangerous. A prince roused to war.

  But even my prince couldn’t fight this war. And they had new evidence? What did even mean? How could they have new evidence when I knew for a fact that he hadn’t killed Violet?

  But do you really know? an awful voice whispered to me. Maybe you were wrong to trust him, to believe him.

  I leaned my head against the glass pane, shutting my eyes against my tears and the sight of the police carriage rolling away towards London. No, I wouldn’t let myself go there. I had made the decision to trust him. I had made the decision to come back to him. I would stand by those choices. No matter what new evidence the police claimed to have, I wouldn’t let them plant new seeds of doubt in my mind. I knew what Mr. Markham’s real sins were, and murder wasn’t one of them.

  But what did my believing in him ultimately do? What if he was charged and found guilty and imprisoned or—oh God—executed?

  No. No. I wasn’t doing that. I wasn’t putting my thoughts on that path. I was going to get dressed and then I was going to find my aunt and then say goodbye to the Baron—

  Of course! The Baron would know what to do. He was friends with Mr. Markham and a very influential man. If anyone could help, he could.

  Someone in the army of discreet servants the Baron employed had brought up my dress from downstairs and laid it across the bed. I dressed as hurriedly as I could, my tears drying up as a plan formulated in my mind. I would enlist Lord Gravendon’s help and then we would march down to the police station and end this madness. I was not going to lose Mr. Markham after having just come back to him. I would not allow it.

  There was another knock at the door, and I turned, for a moment expecting the police again or Mr. Markham or anyone other than Gareth, looking well-groomed and politely concerned.

  “I know it’s rude of me to barge in, Miss Leavold,” he said, “but Mr. Markham has directed me to see you back to you aunt’s house. He doesn’t want you to be affected by this any more than necessary. And I think we should be quick—as soon as word spreads that he’s been arrested, the newspaper men will be coming here and to his hotel and to your residence as well. We need to get you safely ensconced inside so that they can’t harass you.”

  I looked out the window as I nodded. “Yes, yes. But let me find my aunt—”

  “I’ve already spoken to her. She plans to stay here with the Baron, but she will come home this evening.”

  “And I need to speak with the Baron—”

  “He already knows about the arrest,” Gareth broke in gently. “He’s already gathering together several powerful people in the government—peers and judges and lawyers. Mr. Markham won’t be locked up for more than a few hours, I promise.”

  Everything had been taken care of. And in true Julian fashion, he had even found a way to take care of me in the meantime.

  “Okay,” I said, slipping into my shoes. “Let’s go.”

  As I walked out, I grabbed the tuxedo jacket crumpled on the floor and pressed it to my face, breathing in the sun and soap smell of him, hoping it wouldn’t have to substitute for the real thing for long.

  They spared me the indignity of handcuffs, but not the indignity of being forced into the police station itself. I frankly didn’t care that I wasn’t properly dressed—someone offered me an overcoat as I walked in, and I ignored it. But I did care that I was here, pointlessly.

  I was more irritated than angry, more weary than worried. I had little doubt whatever “evidence” they had I could easily overrun. But it was at a cost I had avoided paying until now: telling the truth. The truth that the world would surely hear, and then my sins would be publicly laid bare. The world would know beyond a doubt how deep the veins of darkness ran in my soul and exactly how dense the ore of my transg
ressions was.

  But as exhausting and peevish as that would be, I didn’t really care about anything other than extricating myself from this encumbrance and getting back to my wildcat.

  My wildcat who had wanted to get married this very day.

  Let them know. Let them all know the awful, despicable truth of it, and then let me get back to my life, which had finally become something worth living.

  I was led to a chair near a wide rolltop desk, and I flung myself in it unceremoniously. “How long will this take?” I asked the inspector.

  “You must be questioned,” the inspector said, “and then processed. Then a formal—”

  “There’s no need for that,” I said, using a tone I usually only unleashed on my tenants—or my rebellious wildcat. The inspector closed his mouth quickly, blinking. The tone normally had that effect. I continued. “We will discuss two things, right now. Firstly, you will tell me what this new evidence is and how you came by it. And then I will tell you what happened on the night of my wife’s death. Then I will walk out of this station and you will carry on with more important matters.”

  “I don’t—that’s not—”

  “Inspector, I suppose you realize that, at any moment, I could call an army of barristers, judges and peers to my aid, do you not? We both know that I will not be in this station longer than a few hours, and you can spare yourself much embarrassment—and I can spare myself much trouble—if we both embrace this truth. Now. The evidence.”

  His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he shifted papers around his desk, shuffling handwritten files and letters, refusing to look at me.

  I knew how he felt. I knew he didn’t want to lose face in front of his men, and I knew that whatever evidence he thought he had must be pretty damn compelling, because he was obviously torn between complying with my reasonable suggestion and upholding the letter of the law. But even though I empathized with his conundrum, I was not in the mood to sacrifice my time and energy simply to accommodate a stranger’s needs.

  I put my hand on the table. I didn’t say anything more, I didn’t touch him, I simply reminded him of my presence, and he sighed.

  “Your manservant. Gareth White.”

  “What?”

  “Your manservant gave us eyewitness testimony about you murdering your wife.”

  No. It wasn’t true. It was a thousand times not true. For one thing, Gareth could not have eyewitness testimony of anything of the sort, because I didn’t do it. While that saddle cinch was being cut, I had been balls deep in a clergyman’s wife. And secondly, Gareth had been nothing but incredibly loyal to me his entire tenure—even if he had seen me commit a crime, I would have believed him to keep my secret to his grave. He wouldn’t go to the police with a true story, much less a false one.

  Or would he?

  After all, he had been in love with Violet and he must have known what I did to her that final night. I would be surprised if her shouted pleas and loud sobs hadn’t reached every corner of the house. And I had not been quiet either—I didn’t spare Violet one note of the pleasure I was revenging myself with. I wanted her to hear every groan and every sigh, every curse as my balls had tightened and I filled that Harold woman over and over again. It had been her anguish that made me hard, her emotional pain that had driven me to exorcise every single insult and injury she’d dealt me, exorcise them on another woman’s body.

  Yes. Perhaps that was what drove Gareth to lie to the police about Violet’s death. A quest of mistaken justice. Punished for the wrong thing, perhaps, but at least punished.

  Would my sins always haunt me? Would I never be free? No. I didn’t deserve to be free.

  The inspector finally met my gaze. I kept it steady and cold, even as a tumult surged in my mind, and I said, “Thank you. Now shall you like to hear my version of events?”

  Two hours later, I left the police station, again without the overcoat, ignoring the stares of the passers-by on the sidewalk. A smartly appointed carriage waited in the road for me and the Baron opened the door from the inside as I approached. I got in.

  “I knew you could take care of yourself,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

  “But you were waiting outside just the same.”

  He shrugged. “I like to look out for my flock.”

  I smiled at that. “The Church of Gravendon.”

  “Indeed. Were you forced to tell them the truth? Silas hinted at something quite salacious last night but didn’t go into details.”

  “He’s a good friend.” I leaned back, the leather seat cold against the bare skin of my back. “I told them the entire story and directed them to contact Mrs. Harold of Stokeleigh and Silas Cecil-Coke of Coke Manor with their inquiries about my alibi. I doubt they will; the inspector seemed painfully embarrassed by the entire tale. But the option is there, if they need further satisfaction that I’m innocent.”

  “Which they shouldn’t. I wish I would have been able to prevent all this, Julian, but I didn’t know they were even there until you were being dragged out. But believe me, I would have stopped them.”

  “I know.”

  “At least you managed to see to your pet. I would have taken care of her, you know, but I do know how you like to personally oversee things.”

  I had been looking out of the window, staring at the busy streets and the dull iron of the autumn sky, so it took a minute for me to process what I’d heard. “See to my pet? Ivy? I assumed she would be safe with you—”

  “And she would have been. But I am not criticizing, Markham, merely pointing out a fact. It’s perfectly natural that you arranged for her to be taken to her aunt’s.”

  I was so confused. “But I didn’t arrange it. There wasn’t any time—and besides, it wasn’t necessary. Like I said, I knew Ivy would be safe with you.”

  The Baron narrowed his eyes. “Your valet took her away. Why would he do that, if not on your express command?”

  Gareth. Gareth had Ivy.

  The Baron must have seen something in my face. “What is it?”

  “We have to find her. Now.”

  What was Mr. Markham doing now, I wondered. How was he feeling? Apprehensive? Angry? Determined?

  I knew he would keep his promise. In my lap, I held his tuxedo jacket, and there was that leaf, now paper thin and brittle, nestled inside the chest pocket.

  I always mean the things I say.

  I glanced away from the jacket in my hands and up to the window. We’d taken a cab home to Esther’s, although the trip from the Gravendon mansion was taking much longer than I remembered it being last night. Outside the window, I saw only unfamiliar things—low brick buildings and wet docklands. Esther didn’t live anywhere near here.

  “Do you think we’re lost?”

  Gareth looked up to me, his blue eyes glinting in the dark. “I think we’re going exactly where we need to go.”

  “I guess…”

  He was over to my side of the cab in an instant, something in his hands. Something that gave off a sweet smell. Nothing about this gesture or the accompanying prop made sense to me, and I half wondered if I was dozing right now, dreaming some impossible dream.

  He leaned forward, his hand coming to rest on the cab wall behind my head, and I pressed myself against the wall, trying to give myself space, worried for an insane second that he was going to kiss me. “Gareth, what are you—” I was cut off by a large cloth being forced over my face.

  What the hell was happening?

  I twisted and kicked, feeling my shoe connect with his thigh, then again with his knee. With monstrous strength, he held the cloth fast and I knew from reading the cheap novels Thomas so abhorred that there was something in the cloth, and that I must not breathe it in if I could help it. So I held my breath and went limp, sagging against the seat as if whatever potency that was in the cloth had taken effect. As I watched through my mostly closed eyes, Gareth relaxed his grip ever so slightly, and that’s when I knew I had to act. Any longer and I would pass
out, so it had to be now.

  I reached up with one hand and dug my thumb into his eyeball, and he fought me off. It was the distraction I’d hoped for, directing all his attention upwards while my hand moved downwards. And with a swiftness sped by prayer more than skill, I found the soft package between his legs, squeezed and twisted as hard and as far as I could.

  Gareth screamed and the cloth fell away, and even though it was a terrible idea, the prey animal in my mind couldn’t stomach the thought of not bolting, not running, and I opened the cab door and flung myself onto the street.

  I tried to land on my feet, but my ankle bent sharply to the side. I cried out, falling onto my hip and hands, and I saw the cab screech to a halt, the puzzled cab driver standing on his perch and trying to figure out what just happened.

  I had a choice. I could trust this man, this stranger, who was three feet away from my would-be kidnapper and possibly paid by him or I could run.

  I was Ivy Leavold. Of course, I chose to run.

  Pain stabbed through my ankle as I hitched up my heavy silk skirts and ran through the docklands, but I didn’t let the pain in. I didn’t let the panic in or the questions or anything—my brain only registered the need to run and so I did. I was good at running. I was fast. I was strong. I was born to move. Pinning me down, capturing me, was like trying to make the Thames flow backwards, it was like trying to hold the wind in your hands.

  This was what I’d been born to do and I was going to be safe.

  The docklands were not very busy—we were much farther upstream than the thriving docks on the East End—but there were people in sight, within an easy running distance. A boatyard, it looked like, and on the road, even farther down, carriages. I was going to be safe I was going to be safe I was going to be safe—

  Something hit me from behind, hit me hard, and all the breath left my body as I went pitching forward into the muddy ground. I couldn’t breathe and there was something on top of me and I couldn’t move either…