Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3)

by Baird Wells

  “What!” Hands flailed. “Why …?” Chas scrubbed his wild blond hair. “My father-in-law manages them.”

  “And if, say, Alexandra were to have more shares somewhere, those would also fall to his care, would they not?”

  A nod.

  “But if she dies, unmarried,” Spencer stared at Paulina now, who looked a bit ill, “do you know what happens then?”

  Chas tried to speak, cleared his throat. “No. The legalities do not, um, fall within my purview.”

  “Mrs. Paton! You know, perhaps?”

  A murmur.

  He cocked an ear. “I cannot quite make you out. Mister Paton, turn and ask your wife if she has an answer.”

  Chas's jaw twitched. His pale face flushed from neck to hairline, and he turned on the ball of one foot. He didn't look up to meet her eyes. “Paulina. What happens to the shares?”

  “How would I know?” Her trembling mouth formed words too weak to pass her lips.

  “You manage more of Paton's documents than anyone else.” Chas's arm snaked out. He grabbed her wrist and jerked her down two stairs to stand below him, clutching the banister to keep from tumbling behind. “You manage it,” he added deadly soft, limbs shaking inside his night shirt, “so do not say you don't know!” He screamed the last into her face, spittle flying with each word.

  Bowen lunged forward and got hold of Paulina, and Spencer followed behind, hooking Chas's arm, driving him back until they were nearly lying on the staircase.

  “What happens, Paulina! You damn well answer me.”

  “Don’t make trouble, Charles!” she pleaded, “Don’t make trouble!” The last word cut through the room’s commotion as a shriek.

  “Paton!” Spencer shook a sinewy arm to keep Chas from trying to strangle his wife.

  “Tell me, Reed,” Chas panted. “I know you already know.”

  “Van der Verre loses the stocks. They go to Mister Meacham, unless Alix is kept alive.”

  Chas pressed his free hand to his eyes and began to sob. “You bitch!” he cried. “You horrid, incestuous bitch.”

  “Charles!” Paulina’s eyes flew to every man in turn, an actress gaining the attention of her audience. “As if you didn’t have a hand in it all!”

  Spencer shot a glance over his shoulder and nearly at Paulina flapping in Bowen's grip as though she had any hope of getting away.

  “How can you lay blame against me, Charles?” she demanded. “This man has destroyed our peace, abused our family! And suddenly you take his word over that of your own wife?”

  Chas sat up mechanically, not meeting anyone's eyes. “They'll hang you,” he murmured, sounding dead himself. “We're in England, Paulina. They're going to goddamn hang you.”

  Paulina flailed in earnest, feral noises tearing from her throat.

  Arindale snapped his fingers. “Take her out, Bowen. Noble, hitch her in the wagon.”

  “I am not decent, you great ass!”

  “Your maid will bring you clothes.” Arindale swirled a thick finger. “Out.”

  Paulina raised her chin, shrugging in Bowen’s grip, pinning them each with haughtiness as she passed.

  Spencer watched the spectacle, cold inside.

  As Bowen dragged her out the door, Ethan raised his hat for the first time. “Madam.”

  Chas slumped back into the treads and hung an arm across his eyes. “Am I to be taken with her?”

  Spencer turned to Arindale, who only raised his brows. With a last glance to Chas, Spencer nodded, no idea the extent of Chas’s complicity. “I think you should go with these men now, and you should answer their questions as truthfully as you can. If your wife has done something criminal here, now is the time to set it right.” Spencer lowered his voice, “And to distance yourself from it.”

  “Yes.” Chas's nod was slow, in a trance. “Yes. All right. What will happen to Alix?”

  “I will take her.” Spencer was unequivocal, brooking no argument. “She'll stay with John and Laurel. A physician has been summoned.”

  He wasn't convinced Chas understood what was being said. “Go with Lieutenant Noble,” he said finally. Hooking Chas beneath the arm, Spencer hauled the man to his feet.

  “Reed? Oh, Mister Paton!” Laurel appeared in the doorway, spinning in a circle as Chas passed out and Bowen came back in, obliged to shuffle sideways past her growing belly.

  Spencer stepped forward and put a hand to her shoulder. “Laurel, what the devil are you doing? John will geld me if he finds you've come here.”

  She yanked her bonnet ties with deft fingers. “I’m here for Alexandra. You cannot allow a strange man to come in and prod her without a soul she knows at hand.”

  “She knows me,” he muttered, stung by her words.

  She set her hat on a narrow table inside the door, and rested a tiny hand on his lapel. “No, Spencer. If she has been abused as you say, she will need you after. But this,” she put a hand to his face, and her eyes glanced upstairs. “You will need comforting as much as she does.”

  He took Laurel's hand, relieved by its warm pressure. She rubbed her back and sighed, mouth set in a grim line. “Well, let's go up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There was no doubt that Paulina had been sedating Alexandra, perhaps even poisoning her. The only question more pressing than what she had used, was where she had not hidden her weapons.

  Behind a crock of salt in the kitchen; inside a hatbox in her wardrobe; occupying the place of an ink bottle in her writing case; all eight bottles recovered thus far had been found scattered throughout the house, a bottle of death standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a bottle of wine, innocuous.

  Doctor Ashby swept a hand over the last tuft of white hair atop his egg head, squinted through his spectacles at a final brown glass bottle, and set it on the window ledge with the others. Then he turned kind, sad eyes to Alexandra, heaped on her bed, sleeping or too sedated to be aware of what was happening around her.

  “In their defense, Lordship, it is understandable how several of my peers could have missed such a poisoning.” He waved a hand at the small pharmacy gathered up during Bowen's search of the house. “As you can see there are a number of tinctures and elixirs here.” He knocked a few bottles with a fingertip. “Dogbane. Laudanum. Bits of what appear to be mushrooms. Given in combination, slowly and over time, it would be hard to pinpoint any one of them as the culprit.” He tapped at a scrap of vellum that had neat lines written in pencil down its face. It had been discovered in Paulina's dressing room inside, of all things, a bible. “Mrs. Paton was very skilled in her dosing and administration. Hidden from the staff; even her husband, if he's to be believed. With a family history of madness…” He shrugged. “The missus fooled us all rather well.”

  Spencer didn't care. None of that mattered now. He pointed to Alexandra. “What do we do for her?”

  “I'll examine her. She ought to be given tea and broth only.” Those instructions he directed at Laurel. “Stop the laudanum at once. That alone will be a hard path; God knows what these other concoctions might do to her now they’ve been terminated.”

  Spencer shuddered. Laudanum hunger was not foreign to him. Plenty of wounded relied on it long after they'd fully healed. They became addicted as they convalesced and later found themselves drummed out and shunned by their families.

  Laurel's hand pressed his back. “What should we watch for?”

  “Agitation, paranoia. She cannot be accounted for what she says and does. There will be severe body pains, probably vomiting. You must not give anything until this has passed.”

  Spencer swallowed, watching the slow rise and fall of Alexandra's chest. “Will she...”

  “No,” Ashby reassured. “I cannot speak to anything else, but flushing the laudanum from her cannot cause death. And for that reason you must not comply with anything she asks. She will beg, plead. She may try to escape the house.” His sad expression deepened. “It will not be easy to watch.”

  Inhaling, he looked
to Laurel and steeled himself. “When?”

  “As far as I can tell, her last dose was between one and two o'clock this morning. I expect her symptoms would begin after noon.”

  “We have to move her quickly. She cannot remain in this house.” Alexandra might not recall what she had suffered here, but Spencer couldn't bear to think of her staying a moment longer than necessary.

  “I would advise against it, but I know better than to run contrary to your lordship.” Ashby smoothed his ample waistcoat. “Let's look her over, and you can be on your way. Though I'd advise you to bring along one of those stout lads I passed on my way in. If she wakes en route, you may well regret being in such close quarters. And Lady Hastings should not be alone with her at any point for the next day, at least.”

  Spencer nodded and was silent. Ashby stared, and Laurel stared, seeming to expect something from him. Finally, Laurel cleared her throat. “Spencer.”

  He stared back, waiting.

  Laurel cocked her head toward the door.

  Crossing to the far wall, he took the little ribbon-back chair where Alexandra usually sat, brought it up close to the bed, and planted himself in it, ignoring a silent exchange between Laurel and Ashby. They might fetch Bowen to drag him away, but short of that, he was not leaving.

  Ashby sat his patient up, and Laurel went to work on Alexandra's buttons. The wrinkled calico was filthy; it hung on her torso, mute testament to weeks spent without proper food.

  At the first glimpse of a shoulder that looked far thinner than when he’s last seen it, Spencer lost some of his nerve and turned his eyes away.

  When she’d been stripped, they laid her down and Laurel drew a quilt up over Alexandra. Ashby raised her arms in turn, studied her nails and hmm'd, stopping now and then to scribble on a page in his little brown leather journal.

  He flipped back one side of the quilt, down to her hip. “Mmph.”

  Spencer sat up at Ashby's sound of disgust, craning to see around the doctor's arm. He pushed Laurel's hand from his shoulder and rose half out of his chair.

  Sores. Some were old and red, white flakes of sloughed skin. Others, newer ones, were scabbed by a yellow crust. He clenched his fists, willing slow breaths in and out through his nose. Paulina was fortunate that Arindale had taken her away before Doctor Ashby's arrival.

  “Lift her up. Let's get a look posterior.”

  Outpacing Laurel, Spencer slid his hands under Alix's hip and tried to ignore her flesh against his hand. He pushed her backside while Ashby raised a shoulder, and they turned her half onto her belly.

  Laurel had been right; he should have listened, kept his eyes away. Angrier blisters covered Alix from shoulders to the small of her back. Cuts, small nicks carved by knife or razor, underscored some of them.

  “What are those?” Laurel breathed, while he ran a finger around an oval pattern.

  “Oh!” Laurel buried her face in her hands, turning half away from the bed.

  “What, what is it?”

  “A candle,” she groaned. “A candle would...”

  Spencer hid his own face and fought to keep the image from his mind. He had wondered at times if he were capable of killing a man off of the battlefield. The answer weighed on his heart now.

  Ashby went on scribbling, punctuating each entry with thoughtful noises, then closed his book. “I've seen all that I require. I'll go prepare my report and deliver it to the magistrate this afternoon. Lady Hastings should have some help dressing Miss Paton, and then you may take her off.”

  Spencer stood, more than eager to be away.

  Laurel raised an arm. “Out! You've interfered enough. See Dr. Ashby to the door; one of these skittish servants can help me get her ready.” She planted herself between him and the bed, shooing him out with sweeping hands. Nearly wide as she was tall, Spencer realized he couldn't have circumvented her had he wished to.

  He followed Ashby out into the hall and closed the door. “Your report?”

  Ashby looked wary, and then his shoulders relaxed. “Whether Miss Paton suffers some mental disturbance remains to be seen. Clearly, I cannot assess that now. That she was given substances to keep her compliant? Undoubtedly. Those suffering mental disturbances do themselves harm, but Miss Paton is hardly able to inflict the injuries I observed. And one wonders,” Ashby's voice lowered to a somber rumble, “that there are no injuries to the observable areas, such as the face and limbs.” Ashby sighed and smoothed his thin tuft of hair. “Whatever Miss Paton's condition, I have no doubt that something sinister transpired in this house.”

  Spencer followed Ashby downstairs, shaking his hand and closing the door at his exit. He pressed his back to the cool plaster, closed his eyes, and tried to gather himself. Tried not to see Alexandra's wounds again and again in his mind.

  Chas had warned Paulina that she would be hanged. Spencer clenched a fist, stretched out his fingers. Lucky for her, just now, that was probably true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Broadmoore -- September 23rd, 1814

  The screaming came again, ripping like a gale through doors and hallways.

  Laurel raised from her seat; John's palm atop her shoulder pressed her back gently. Spencer took another long draw on his whiskey and fought the urge to be sick. None of them spoke; keeping vigil in the parlor, the noises coming upstairs pressed them into silence.

  Fists hammered against the door out of time with one another. At first Alexandra had screamed incoherent things, and occasionally he'd caught Chas and Paulina's names in the garbled string. Now she was begging again and again for Laurel to ease her suffering, seeming to know who and where she was. Spencer wasn't certain if he should feel relief at her increased awareness, or fear that she was delirious in spite of it.

  Many of her pleas and cries were muffled, but those that weren’t took many forms; she was dying, they all wanted her gone, they were killing her. She had even screamed about 'all the blood', though he had no telling if it was a hallucination or a plea for sympathy.

  “Please, please!” she moaned. And then a long bout of sobbing echoed off of the floorboards.

  It wore at Spencer’s sanity; he had to do something, had to try.

  “Go out,” he ordered finally. “Grayfield has made his house open to one or all of us.”

  “She's our family,” Laurel protested, but he caught her anxious glance at John.

  He put his hand on her arm and squeezed. “So she is, and you've done a great deal already. But there's nothing you can do now.”

  John hesitated, still staring at Laurel; Spencer watched the conflict tearing at him.

  “Hastings, your wife is in a delicate state. The servants have all gone out; there's no one to wait on you,” he reasoned. “This cannot be good for her. Go to Grayfield's. Rest. You can relieve my watch come morning.”

  He locked gazes with John, who nodded. “Thank you, Reed.”

  Laurel took his hand and kissed it, resting her cool forehead against his knuckles. “You are a good man, Spencer. Thank you.”

  “Spencer!” Alexandra's banshee shriek snapped Laurel up, rocking her chair. “Spencer,” she moaned again, hammering the door one solid blow at a time.

  She went on that way for half an hour while John and Laurel gathered themselves to leave the house, agitated by their commotion.

  Spencer held himself in check until the rumble of their carriage faded down the drive. Then he mustered his courage, planted one boot after another on the staircase, and went up.

  For a few minutes, he stood in the hall and listened. Alexandra whispered furiously to herself, and something rustled like clothes brushing the floor. He turned and sat down, leaning his back against the door. All sound stopped and the house was silent a few breaths.

  Spencer realized after the kick that he should have thought better about resting his head on the door. The wood jarred ahead of her foot, rattling his teeth.

  “I know you're out there, you son of a bitch! Open this door!” Another kick. �
�You cannot keep me here.” He heard her suck in a breath, braced for a scream. “I hate you!” She ejected the words with a force that vibrated against his back.

  Spencer drew knees up to his chest, clasped his hands and bit his tongue. Keeping silent tore at his chest and wracked him with guilt, no matter how necessary.

  Screeching and swearing, Alix pounded through the room. Something crashed to the floor and rolled. That was intriguing, since they'd removed every possible object from reach. She went on hitting walls and pounding the door, calling him every sort of a devil for long minutes. The meaty thud of a body falling to the floor reached his ears, and then panting.

  “Please,” she gasped. “Please, Spencer. If you won't let me out, just come in. Please, I'm so frightened.”

  He struggled with the entreaty, remembering Doctor Ashby's caution. He knew she was still heavily under the influence of the drugs. In the end, he could handle himself. He was not letting her out, and he was damned well not giving her more laudanum.

  Spencer stood up, took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. He snapped the door open just an inch, jerked it back and then swung with the full strength of his arm. It caught Alexandra's charge long enough for him to hook her with an arm. His grip knocked her from her feet and sent her sliding on her backside almost to the window.

  “You bastard! You are the son of a whore!” She struggled onto her elbows, spitting in his direction.

  He closed the door, locked it again, and sat against it once more. “You can paint me black with your tongue all night, but if you take to spitting and biting, I'll muzzle you.” He trusted the threat to be enough, not trusting himself to follow through.

  “Of course you will!” Her laugh bubbled with hysteria. “You're just like them! I hate you.” Alix struggled to her feet and climbed up onto her bed. She turned her back, sitting cross legged, and faced the wall.

  Spencer guessed they passed nearly an hour that way, unnerving silence in comparison to her earlier raging. Now and then her breath rasped, and after awhile her shoulders slumped and he wondered if she slept. Then: “Spencer.”