“Which is why their coats appeared blue.”
He draped both arms over the side of the chair as though weak from the tale. “I’ve been accused of murder, Charley. Cold blooded murder.”
She swallowed around the cotton lump in her throat, her mind racing to keep up.
“God,” he spat, leaning forward, planting his elbows on his knees and scrubbing both palms over his face. “Why did those men say nothing? It makes no sense. It has never made any sense.”
“What did the other patrolman say?”
“That they never heard our calls. But they must have. Those men must have heard something.”
Charley didn’t know what to say, though she quickly realized Alex was not looking to her for answers… he was searching for them within himself.
“Over and over I’ve run the scene in my mind.” The words rushed forth in a torrent of pent up frustrations. “There must be something I missed. Something that could have been done differently. If I’d just waited a few moments longer.”
Charley reached out, brushing gentle fingers across his arm. “Alex, it was an accident.”
He shot to his feet. “That does not absolve me.” He fixed eyes raw and bleeding from guilt of the soul on her. “An official inquiry cleared me of wrong doing, but the doubts and whispers linger. General Witherspoon is here to see to it the whole of Britain sees me for the villain.” He paused for a long moment. “How do I deny the fact when I scarcely believe it myself?”
“Alex, you were cleared of wrong doing and you meant Tobias and those other men no harm,” she reasoned.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied without hesitation.
Frustrated Alex raked both hands through his hair. “It matters not what the facts are. Witherspoon has twisted everything, when this is through the Coverstone name will be ruined. I cannot do that to my brothers.” Finally he met her gaze. “The ton can say what they will about me, I could care less about the lot of them, but my brothers are not here to defend their family legacy. All of them died with nothing to pass along and I will not have their memories sullied because of my foolishness.”
Charley’s heart threatened to melt all over again. Could it be her husband’s concerns were not of selfishness but for his lost family?
“If you were cleared of wrong doing I don’t see how the general’s accusations can hurt you.”
“You know the cruel bite of gossip.”
Yes. Yes, she did. All too well in fact. “This is why you’ve been so worried over maintaining appearances.”
“Fat lot of good that did for me tonight. When I saw you with Sidney… something just snapped.”
“So you were jealous.”
“Of course I was jealous,” he grumbled. “Not that pummeling him did me any favors. After that public display of brutality Witherspoon’s story will seem all the more plausible.”
Alex’s shoulders slumped forward, and, truly, Charley had never seen him so defeated. Part of her longed to go to him, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders and rock him as one would a child in need of comfort; while another cautioned to hold back, and be wary.
“Why did you not tell me of this sooner?”
“I feared you’d leave me,” he said, the answer honest and humble. “You already tried once.”
Touché.
“You must believe me, Charley, what you saw with Veronica, nothing happened, and I did not murder Tobias Witherspoon. His death was an accident.” He looked up to her, the wall guarding his emotions crumbling before her eyes. “A horrible, miserable accident. Lord knows if I could take it all back I would.”
The silent plea for understanding was near to her undoing. Alex did not reach for her or make any move to stand. The next play lay solely in her hands. Fidgeting her feet beneath her skirts, Charley ached to believe him, hold to what they’d found in each other, but a nasty wheedling of doubt took firm root in her mind. Did ignoring it make her weak? Or perhaps not weak… but merely human?
“I understand if you want to leave,” Alex continued. “But I want you to stay tonight. I want you to stay… for always.” The whispered entreaty fell pained and broken on her ears, filled with such longing she could not have stopped going to him if she tried.
“Oh, Alex.” She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head to her bosom, resting her cheek against the soft lawn of his hair. His arms wound around her and for a long while they simply held each other.
“Witherspoon is responsible for your kidnapping. I’d stake my life on it. He wants me to know his loss.” Finally he drew back. “Forgive me whatever happens next, love.”
Rather than respond verbally Charley leaned in and kissed him fiercely. For just one more night she would be human. One more night she would take his passion, and whatever illusion of love he offered. Then in the morning light she would face whatever ugly truths came knocking… and they would come knocking. Of that she was certain.
* * *
Moonlight shifted in and out of the cloud cover, throwing long, eerie shadows over the wintry gardens of Chrisington House. Blind in the darkness, Sidney slipped on a thatch of ice, tumbling to the frozen ground.
Crack. Pain and tingles shot up his arm. “Son of bitch,” he groaned, a slew of other curses streaming through his mind. Just what he needed, a broken elbow to match the black eye and fat lip Alex had given him at Brumble Hall. At least Alex came out looking the fool after that debacle. A cuckolded fool no less. If not for the excruciating pain throbbing the length of his arm—dear God even his armpit hurt—he may have laughed aloud. He could not have planned a more perfect scene. Sid clamored to his feet, cradling the injured arm. He flexed his fingers, further assessing the damage. Hurt like hell, but everything seemed in working order, thank the Lord for that.
With overt care he stepped through the withered garden to the decrepit backdoor and slipped through. Surreptitiously he crept through the darkened manse to the master bedchamber at the back of the second floor. It had been months since he’d been there, but he wove through the maze of halls as though he’d been there yesterday. Some things a man did not forget. A sliver of yellow light peaked beneath the bedroom door, and Sidney entered without knocking.
Minions of candles perched on every flattened surface of the room from the floor to the windowsills. Each flame danced and weaved to it’s own rhythm, lending a haunted quality to the room’s atmosphere. Dim golden light deepened the red interior, leaving the walls, curtains, and carpets the burgundy hue of blood. At the center of the ghostly scene sat Veronica, draped all in white, her silver blond locks and ice blue eyes all but matching the gauzy fabric while her crimson lips matched the room’s interior. Pale and brittle as porcelain, a lesser man would find her unearthly beauty more than a little frightening, but Sid knew the hot human body beneath the glasslike surface well.
“You beckoned?”
Veronica fixed those huge deep set eyes on him and the will to breathe escaped him. Aphrodite could not have claimed more beauty than this one woman. “I’ve been waiting for you over four hours,” she spat, the acid in her tone belying her goddess persona.
“Evidenced by the wax pooling in your carpet.” Feigning boredom Sidney sauntered to the mahogany bookshelf and blew out one of the flickering flames. Veronica’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Sid chuckled and loosened his cravat, leaning casually against the bookcase. “Come now, my dear, we both know you didn’t call me here to shoot ice daggers at me. What is it you wish to discuss?”
Her chilly gaze never wavered. “Alexander Rawlings.”
Anger flared. Of course she wanted to discuss Alex. Women always wanted Alex. Teeth clenched he managed to keep his expression impassive.
“I want you to ruin him.”
Pleasantly surprised Sid crossed one leg over the other, settling in for a long, likely profitable conversation. “Ruin him? I thought you wanted him in the biblical sense. Have you had a change of heart, my dear?”
/> Veronica arranged the gauzy fabric at her waist. “Alex embarrassed me before the entire ton. Twice. I want him to suffer for it.”
“Then it seems we are in accord, my lady.”
A malicious smile curved her ruby lips. “I thought as much. Pray tell, Sidney, did you plan that little scene with his wife?”
“In part.” He touched the tender bridge of his nose. “I’ll likely sport two black eyes on the morrow, but the sacrifice was well worth it.”
“Yes, well, leading the ton to believe his wife is carrying on an illicit affair will get the biddies gossiping to be sure, but when I’m through with him he’ll wish he was dead.” The sinister gleam in her gaze indicated she wanted more than for Alex to wish himself dead.
“Oh? Do you have something in mind?”
“He once had a relationship with Mrs. Barcelona did he not?”
“The courtesan? I daresay he did. How do you know of it?” Alex was painfully discreet.
“A woman has her ways.” She smiled elusively. “Now, tell me, have you seen her son?”
* * *
From the seat of his barouche Alex swept an assessing gaze across the passing harbor and nodded approvingly. Timber masts stood tall and proud over the wharf, watching over London, and inviting bystanders to step aboard for the promise of adventure. Mates scurried about the docks, loading and unloading cargo, expertly maneuvering lines and nettings. Merchants went about their business, finagling deals, scheduling shipments and whatever else their trade entailed. The port was alive with a brand of militaristic efficiency Alex knew and respected. While he was not a sailor, this was an environment he understood. He drew a refreshing breath of salt tinged air into his lungs. He’d always loved visiting or even just driving past the shipyard. There was something about the sea that excited him. Got in his blood.
The port swept by, and Alex sighed. He missed being busy.
Oh, he had a slew of responsibilities to see to: A stack of papers piled higher than that mast out yonder, and no less than five solicitors begging for an audience in regard to Coverstone estate business. The fiasco with Witherspoon was about to reach fever pitch, and he still had to prove the bastard had kidnapped Charley—which brought him to the business at hand. Alex shoved thoughts of a simpler life away, and directed his driver to Bow Street.
Once there he requested an audience with the chief magistrate, Sirius Mott. Waiting for the magister, Alex ambled aimlessly about the simple wooden room, and finally sat in one of the scarred wooden chairs lining the wall. He looked down at the plain brown fabric of his jacket—still thick with the scent of mothballs—and smoothed the cuff. He should have joined the navy. If he’d joined the damn navy perhaps the muck of his life could have been avoided at least in part. Certainly he’d never have had the stubborn, green, idiot Tobias Witherspoon under his command.
“Lord Coverstone, it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. Sirius Mott at your service.”
Honor. Alex nearly scoffed aloud. Most in London would call his presence a mockery after last night. An insult to the eyes. His own wife had clung to him last night as though they’d never be together again. Alex stood, assessing the magistrate’s sincerity. Not yet forty, his wind weathered, bronzed skin spoke of a life other than law enforcement and made judging his true age near to impossible. Shrewd brown eyes gazed back at Alex, filled with honesty.
Alex bowed respectfully. “Thank you, Mr. Mott.”
“I must say, Major, your service on the peninsula is legendary. We could all stand to learn from a strategist of your caliber.”
Alex shifted uncomfortably. “Legendary may be a bit of a stretch.” Far better men than he deserved praise as legends, most lay six feet under, eternally slumbering in tar sealed pine boxes. He cleared his throat. “I am here today in regard to a most sensitive matter, and before we go any further I require your utmost discretion.”
“Of course, my lord.” He nodded gravely. “Please, do sit. Am I correct in assuming this has to do with the letter I received a couple of weeks ago from a Mr. Reilly?”
“Yes.” Alex situated himself on the same hard backed chair he’d vacated just moments before, and waited for the commodore to seat himself as well. “A little over two weeks ago my wife was abducted by two men and held for a 5000 pound ransom.”
Mott’s eyes widened in alarm.
“My cousin, Sidney Harris, and I were able to retrieve her unharmed and with my coffers intact,” he quickly assured. “Unfortunately I have reason to believe a very important man may have hired the fiends. General Witherspoon.”
Mott’s brow shot up. “Do you have any proof?”
“None, and I’d ask that you keep my suspicions between us.”
“Of course.”
“However, if we locate and arrest Steven Johnston, one of the men who took my wife, he can tell us exactly who hired him.”
Mott spread his palms. “I’ll do what I can, Lord Coverstone. If Johnston is taken into custody I’ll send for you straight away. I’ll keep an ear to the ground as well. Matters such as these have a way of circulating through the criminal community. A few of my contacts may recall someone looking to hire for a job a few weeks ago.”
“My thanks.” Alex rose, exchanged a few more pleasantries and took his leave, setting off to the tailor.
After the events of last night Alex took great care in avoiding eye contact with anyone as he maneuvered the streets of downtown London. Granted it was entirely plausible that no one recognized him dressed in the plain brown jacket and tan trousers he’d scrounged out of a trunk that morning. He looked far more like a working class businessman than a marquis and that suited his purpose just fine.
At long last he arrived at his final destination, looked up the mountain of granite steps and sighed.
Home.
He passed his barouche off to a waiting stable boy and strode up the freshly swept steps of Coverstone House wanting nothing more than to go to the cabinet in his father’s study and locate the secret compartment hiding that smooth aged whiskey. The stack of papers littering his desk glowed in his mind’s eye. By Christ being a Marquis came with an inane amount of paperwork. He should probably grant Mr. Simmons an audience. The poor man had called three… times…
Alex hesitated on the last step. Is that shouting? His hand fell to the doorknob. Definitely shouting. Internally he groaned. What calamity had the fates seen fit to drop at his feet this afternoon. Steeling himself for what was sure to be disaster, he shoved through the front door, and instantly wished he’d never bothered coming home.
Utter chaos stabbed him in the face. A crush of servants clogged the entryway, some whispering, most staring at the commotion in the middle of the hall.
“This is absolute ludicrous,” his mother’s shriek reverberated off the walls. “Get that urchin out of my sight.”
“Now, see ‘ere, milady? I’m only followin’ Lord Mancroft’s instructions. If ye’ve got a problem with all this take it up with ‘im.”
Lord Mancroft? What business could the grisly earl have at Coverstone House? Alex waded through the throng of servants to feast his gaze upon two strangers in working class clothes, Hastings, his mother, and Charley clustered in the middle of the entrance hall. By all accounts the confrontation appeared cataclysmic.
“Quiet everyone,” he roared above the continued shouts. “Explain what this is about immediately.”
Every eye fell to him, and the room sucked in a collective breath. Dead silence fell over the hall. Somewhere in the crowd a coin or perhaps a button clinked onto the marble floor, but no one moved to retrieve it.
Charley turned to him, eyes filled with such accusation and bitterness Alex took an abrupt step back. Holy Christ, I’m in trouble.
“Charley, what’s going on?”
Pure ice poured from her gaze as she reached behind her, coaxing a half pint child no older than three from behind the curtain of her sage skirts.
“Your son.”
Th
irteen
Alex recoiled with the force of a slingshot band. “Err—sh… No.” He thrust out an arm as though the act could propel her words back down her throat and out of existence. “Impossible.”
“Is it?” Charley cocked her head to the side in the calculating manner of one holding all the cards. “Jack here is two. Does that ring any bells?”
Alex swallowed, hard, dread sinking like mercury deeper and deeper in his middle. “Should it?”
“Perhaps the name of his mother will jog your memory.” She paused with excruciating effect, her face frighteningly placid. “Bernadette. Barcelona.”
The blood drained from his body, leaving him cold and tingling to the tips of his fingers. He looked from Charley’s unyielding face to the child standing before her. “T-two you said?” Corn silk blonde hair glared up at him, a total contrast to Alex’s dark locks, but he’d been a toe head as a boy, and... No.
No. No. No.
It just couldn’t be. Alex was painfully careful, and Bernadette would have told him if they’d had a son. Wouldn’t she? He stumbled forward, desperate for proof that his denials were not in vain. Jack turned his chubby face up and Alex froze midstride.
Oh, dear God… his eyes.
Alex crashed to his knees before the child, searching the frightened little face. There was no mistaking the intensely hued blue—bright as the ocean and deep as the midnight sky. By the saints, Alex found himself staring into the mirror image of… himself.
“What the hell is going on?” he rasped, unable to tear his gaze from the boy.
“These men brought Jack by while you were out,” Charley supplied. “He is the ward—excuse me, the former ward of Lord Mancroft.” She waved a letter. “It seems the boy’s mother, Mrs. Barcelona, made a deathbed confession and Jack never should have been in the earl’s custody in the first place.”
“D-deathbed?”
“Yes. This letter explains it all. Would you like to read it?”
Heart sinking, Alex snatched the missive from her hand. Unfolding the paper he turned his face to the words.
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