Indiscretions

by Gail Ranstrom

  He squatted by the body and examined the scene. That Elise had faced this horror sickened him and he made a silent promise that she would never endure this again. But he would have to live with the fact that he had failed her, too. He should have killed Barrett the first time he’d seen him squeeze her arm, or the first time he’d seen a bruise, or even the first time there’d been a mark on her throat. Hell, he should have killed Barrett on principle.

  Regrettably, he hadn’t, and now Elise would have to live with the stain of murder on her soul. But she wouldn’t go to prison. She wouldn’t hang. He could spare her that much, at least.

  He snatched the shredded nightgown off the floor and stuffed it into his greatcoat pocket. He looked around, and wherever he saw signs of Elise’s occupancy, he put them to rights. He picked her brush up and put it on the dressing table. He hung her robe on a peg in the dressing room. He righted the chairs she had used, unsuccessfully, to keep her husband out.

  Lastly, he went back to Barrett’s body. There were several wounds. One high on the forehead, a blow to the side of his face and the fatal wound in the center of his forehead. He had to tug the silver-framed miniature to dislodge it from the bone and he marveled that Elise had struck with such force. But he had seen instances of remarkable strength when one was threatened or excited.

  He removed an edge of Elise’s torn nightgown and carefully cleaned the frame and the portrait of her son within—a lad who looked so like her that he smiled—and put it on Elise’s bed table. Now everything would look as if Elise had left before the struggle. The servants would know that she had come home, but he would swear that she had left by the time he arrived.

  Then he would confess to Barrett’s murder. Half the ton would know by morning that he’d threatened Barrett at Thackery’s, and it would be no stretch to believe he’d killed the viscount. In fact, he had come to do it, but Elise had beaten him to it.

  He stood and took one last look at the room before going down the stairs and silently back into the night.

  Hunt watched Elise’s pale face as Sarah excused herself, left her small sitting room and closed the door behind her.

  Elise was wearing one of Sarah’s gowns this morning, a fine bottle-green kerseymere that made her look so pale and fragile that he feared for her sanity. He wanted to hold her, comfort her and protect her, but he didn’t dare touch her until they talked. He had to know, first, if he had destroyed whatever she had felt for him on the island with his behavior here. At times, to his shame, he’d been little better than Barrett. He had allowed that ugly hidden side of himself to control him.

  Now that they were alone, he saw her anxiety rising. She looked bewildered by the announcement and her teacup rattled in the saucer. He knew she was fighting to maintain her composure. “Dead? But… I couldn’t have…could I? Dead. Barrett is dead. He was breathing when I left. I… I am sure of it. And yet, he is dead. How can that be?”

  He leaned forward and took the cup from her hand. “Peace, madam. Breathe. We shall discuss that in a moment.” He prayed she would not argue with him.

  “But who else? It was the middle of the night. Who could have…”

  Had the trauma of the event blocked her memory? “You really do not know, do you?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide and bewildered. “Know what? Tell me, Hunt! There is something more than my husband’s death going on here, is there not?”

  He rose and went to stand by the fireplace, needing to put distance between them. He couldn’t be so close to her without wanting to touch her. And when she heard his confession, she would want nothing further to do with him. He toyed with the idea of telling her the truth, but her lapse of memory was a blessing. If she knew the truth, her sense of honor would demand that she accept the blame. He couldn’t let her do that.

  She twisted her hands in her lap, her face registering shock mingled with anxiety. “What is wrong with me? Barrett is dead, and all I can think of is that the police will be coming for me soon. And William. I must find William at once.” She looked up at him and her eyes were wide with disbelief. “And I keep thinking that I am unnatural because, you see, I am not sad for losing Barrett. I am sad for a little boy who will grow up without a father. And I keep thinking how it is—” She stood and shook her head, then pressed her fingers to her forehead as if she were about to make some awful confession. “How it is—oh, for shame, Elise—a relief that I will never have to wedge a chair beneath my door or wince when someone touches me, or cover bruises and scratches with rice paper and pretend that all is well.” She stopped in front of him. “Am I some horrid monster that I cannot cry for my son’s father?”

  Unaware that he’d even been holding his breath, he exhaled in relief. Thank God she would not hate him. “You are not a monster, Elise, but there are complications,” he admitted.

  “Complications? Oh, dozens that I can think of, and not a single one pleasant. But what complications are you thinking? Tell me, Hunt. However unpleasant, I must know. It…it is not William, is it?”

  “No, not William, though I have started a search for him. It is something else. Last night, after you came here, I went back to your house to talk to Barrett. To reason with him, but…”

  “That is how you knew he was dead? But why have the police not come for me?”

  “I did not report it. Your servants are likely just discovering Barrett’s body. And the police will not come for you, Elise. They will come for me.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then her eyes widened in horror. “No. Lockwood, no. Say you did not—”

  His silence was enough to convince her. The long overdue tears sprang to her eyes and she clutched his sleeve. “What have I done to you? I’ve made you a murderer!”

  “Oh, I was that long ago, madam. And whatever I’ve done, I’ve done willingly. You have nothing to regret.”

  “You cannot take this upon yourself. I shall say that I murdered Barrett and fled here. If no one saw anything, no one can contradict me. And I am responsible, Lockwood. I am.”

  Dear Lord, how he loved her! That she would forfeit her future to save him was incredibly poignant. He slipped his arms around her and held her gently, still afraid she might have injuries he did not know about. “Hush, madam. I will hear no more of that. The blame is mine, and mine alone. And I shall gladly face whatever the future brings, knowing that you are free.”

  When Hunt returned to his office after a meeting with every official of the Home Office, he found a full complement of brothers awaiting him, with his brother-in-law and Auberville. He could scarcely get into the small room.

  “Well?” Andrew asked.

  He edged around them to get behind his desk. “No arrest will be made for several days.”

  Charlie smiled, his face clearing. “Then you recanted your confession.”

  “No. I did it. There’s no way around that. I simply asked for a few days to put my affairs in order. As a courtesy, and in view of all I’ve done for my country, they have agreed to allow me time to conclude some outstanding business. Speaking of that, Charlie, how is your examination of bank records coming?”

  “Interesting. Someone has been inquiring about your finances, you know. Gavin Doyle.”

  “I expected as much. He offered to find me an investment. We shall see if he takes the bait. When will you be done?”

  “By tomorrow, but I can drag it out. If you need the time, I can delay a least a week.”

  Hunt laughed. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary. In fact, I need those results as quickly as possible.”

  “Bedamned!” James cursed. “How can you laugh when you are about to hang?”

  “There will be a trial first,” Auberville pointed out. “And if ever a man needed killing, Barrett did. You should have a sympathetic jury, Hunt. But I doubt you’ll escape unscathed.”

  “Are the gossipmongers at work already?”

  “Not a word about Barrett’s death so far,” Ethan said. “The
Home Office will keep it hushed until you are in custody. But that will not last for long. Unfortunately, there is considerable gossip concerning your confrontation with Barrett at Thackery’s last night. And it will be deuced difficult to hush a funeral, will it not?”

  Hunt ignored the comment. It was far too late to be concerned with discretion. “Meantime, I want every resource at our disposal directed at finding Elise’s son, William. I believe the matter is urgent. I put Harry Richardson on it yesterday, but he will need help.”

  “The boy is missing?” Auberville asked.

  “Since his arrival back in England.” He did not want to go into the sordid details of Barrett’s cruelty and neglect. “Thank you all for coming. I appreciate your concern. But I need to have a private word with Andrew.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows drew together and Hunt knew he suspected what was coming. He waited until the others filed out, opened his lower drawer, pulled out his bottle and two glasses and poured them both a generous glass.

  “Andrew, should the worst happen, you will be the next Earl of Lockwood. I—”

  “Stop right there,” Andrew said, holding up one hand, palm outward. “I am not fit for this, and you know it. You are Lord Lockwood and I am Lord Libertine. It was never in my plan to become your heir.”

  “I was not aware that you even had a plan. And, like it or not, you are my heir in the absence of a male child. The title may not rest easy on you, but it will be yours. I have charges for you, and I advise you to remember them well.”

  “Wait,” Andrew said. He gulped his port as no mortal man should and placed his glass back on Hunt’s desk. “Can you not plead self-defense? Say that Barrett attacked you?”

  “For the love of God, Drew. We were in Barrett’s house. In the lady’s bedchamber. Not two hours earlier, half the patrons at Thackery’s heard me threaten him. How should I explain that away?”

  Andrew sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re a bloody liar, Hunt. And I want to know why, although I suspect I already do.”

  “Liar? I do not know what you mean.”

  “Ye gods! I am not good at much, Hunt, but I know a lie when I hear one. It is my one talent in this life. If you want the others to believe you killed Barrett, well and good. And if you think we do not know the depth of your involvement with Lady Barrett, then I applaud your powers of self-delusion. But if you are going to ask this of me, you owe me the truth.”

  Hunt pushed his glass away. Perhaps Andrew was right. He should know the truth if he had any hope of protecting Elise. “He was dead when I arrived. Elise was in shock when she arrived at Sarah’s. She does not remember killing him. I cannot say if Barrett was still breathing when she left, but he was damn near rigid by the time I arrived. She may have held the weapon, but Barrett’s death is my fault. I set everything in motion. I enraged him further by publicly humiliating him, and I was foolish enough to think my threat would deter him from further abuse. Elise will not suffer for this, Drew.”

  “How did she do it?”

  “A silver framed miniature was stabbed in his forehead. I found…signs that he had attacked her and that she was only defending herself.”

  “Then let her plead self-defense.”

  “Drew, the law does not give her the right to refuse him. And remember that she has done him violence before and only just returned to England. No one will believe her.”

  Andrew nodded for him to continue.

  “And that is what I must ask you. Look after them, will you? Elise will do well enough, but the guilt will weigh her down. The boy will need someone to look up to. I fear there is no one to teach him how to be a gentleman.”

  Andrew coughed. “Gentleman? You cannot seriously tap me for that task?”

  “You’re a better man than you think, Drew. Whether you act the part or not, you know what is required. But there is more. If I haven’t been able to conclude the matter before I must turn myself over, you will have to finish a job for me.”

  “Aye?”

  “Someone is trying to kill Elise. That potted palm last night was not the first attack on her. There was one in St. Claire, and that would mean…”

  “Doyle,” Andrew finished.

  “I have a strong suspicion that the attacks on her are somehow linked to my investigation. Without someone looking out for her, they might succeed.”

  He watched the emotions play across Andrew’s face and wondered if he would accept the charge. It wasn’t surrender he saw there, but anger. Drew was furious. He had a conscience after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I must say, madam, it was not easy to find you. When I heard the news, I went straightaway to your house, only to discover that you were not there, and the servants could not tell me where you might be found.”

  Elise closed the sitting room door and went to the tea table. Her head ached and she wished now that she had declined to receive him. “How did you find me, Mr. Doyle?”

  “Why, I ran into Charlie Hunter, who told me you were staying with his sister. Excellent idea, that. Not good to be alone at times like these. Do they know who did it?”

  He did not know? Well, she was still bewildered enough by the events of last night that she could not make much sense of it either. But she would not be the one to explain any of it to Mr. Doyle. “I have not heard.”

  “Oh? Well, you have my sympathy, madam. Though…”

  “Yes?”

  He gave her a sly look, as if inviting her confidence. “Perhaps there is not excessive reason to mourn?”

  His frankness startled her. What could she say to such a veiled question? She poured out tea for them both without making any comment.

  “Now, Master William—begging your pardon, Viscount Barrett—will, no doubt, miss his father.”

  “No…doubt,” she responded, wondering when she had gone from enjoying Mr. Doyle’s company to being unnerved in his presence.

  “And I gather Lockwood will step into the breach.”

  She looked at him in wonder. Did he realize how dreadful he was making everything sound?

  “Beg pardon,” he said when he saw her expression. “I noted on St. Claire how you two had formed a tendresse. I assume there will be no impediment to your liaison now. As long as his business does not interfere, that is.”

  “Business?” Whatever was Mr. Doyle talking about?

  “The business that took him to St. Claire in the first place, madam. All on the hush, of course.”

  Elise felt as if she’d walked in on the middle of a conversation. How had they come to talk about her and Lockwood? “I have no notion of what you mean, sir. And I think it would be better if we did not discuss Lockwood.”

  “Ah, I’ve done it again, have I not? Won’t breathe a word of it to anyone. I swear. Why, that might actually give Lockwood the best motive ever for…oh, sorry.”

  Her head was still spinning when he touched her on the shoulder and asked, “Do you have everything you need, madam? These are difficult times, and if there is anything I can do to ease your mourning, I hope you know I would consider it an honor.”

  Puzzled, she turned back to him, wondering what in the world he thought he could do for her. Money? Favors? Heavens! Was he trying to ingratiate himself with her? Did he plan to woo her when her mourning was over? If, indeed, she mourned?

  “You must have come here suddenly,” he said. “Not much time to pack. If you would make me a list, I should be happy to fetch your things. Whatever you may need.”

  She put her teacup down, stood and crossed the room to look out the window at the passing carriages. “Sarah has been kind enough to lend me some of her things. We are of a size, and…” suddenly she was tired of explaining herself to Mr. Doyle. “No, sir. I have no needs, and if that situation should change, I shall inform you of it or take care of it myself.”

  He gave her a shamefaced grin. “I’ve overstepped. I have a tendency to do that, you know. It is only because I care. And when I thou
ght of you with nothing but evening gowns and your light island cottons, I thought you might need something warmer. Or have you had winter gowns made and put your island things away until the summer?”

  In truth, she did need a few things. Personal items—comb, brush, toothbrush, a nightgown and robe. Perhaps Barrett had a cash box. She would be needing money for incidentals and to pay the Bow Street runner who was searching for William. And she would need her writing box. She did not relish the task of sending the news of Barrett’s death to her brother. And Barrett’s. And yet she could not bring herself to ask Mr. Doyle to assist her in fetching her things. For some inexplicable reason, she did not want to be in his debt. Perhaps it would be easier if she just returned home.

  “Thank you, sir. If I should think of something…”

  Sarah bustled into the parlor, met Elise’s pleading gaze and assumed an air of efficiency. “There you are, my dear. Mr. Doyle, I do hope you will excuse us. The vicar has come and wishes to discuss…arrangements. Are you up to it, Elise?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said gratefully. She turned to Mr. Doyle and offered her hand. “Thank you so much for coming, sir. It is times like these when we learn who our true friends are.”

  “Not at all, madam. Not at all. I shall call again very soon to see how you fare.”

  Hunt saw Doyle cross the foyer and exit by the front door as he was coming in the back from the mews where he’d left his horse. What business did Doyle have here? Elise? After the incident at Thackery’s last night, he’d be damned if he let Doyle anywhere near her. “Sarah?” he called.

  “In the sitting room, Hunt,” she called.

  He found both Sarah and Elise standing at the window, watching Doyle’s coach draw away down the street. Sarah looked concerned as she turned to him. “Shall I pour you a cup of tea?”

  “No, I…”

  “Elise was just telling me that she thinks she should go home. I have asked her to stay, but she is reluctant.”

  He looked back at Elise. “I think she should stay right here. In fact, I insist upon it.”