Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  “Executed?”

  John nodded. “Aye. They are pushing for him to hang.”

  It was worse than she’d thought. She sank down onto a window seat. The glass overlooked a narrow alley from the second floor. A black and white cat made figure eights around wooden crates, its nose lifted as it smelled the remnants of what had been inside. The sloshy sound of carriage wheels pulled through mud echoed down the alley.

  “What do we do?” she asked.

  “There is more.”

  She turned to face him. “What more could there possibly be?”

  John’s expression grew dire. “When I attempted to go to Lucien’s town house, that, too, was closed off to me.”

  The words robbed Elizabeth of breath.

  “The Attorney General had closed it off as well. I went to the man, tried to explain to them that Lucien had never touched his brother’s money, but he didn’t care. Their investigation is complete, they told me. Lucien is to be formally charged before the House of Lords tomorrow, tried before Parliament next week.”

  “Next week! But that is impossible. ’Tis too fast.”

  “They are expediting matters in the hopes of stemming the frenzy that will no doubt surround Lucien’s trial and because there is a session scheduled for the week after next.”

  Elizabeth’s breath escaped in a rush. It was inconceivable.

  And yet obviously true.

  Lucien had already been tried and convicted in the eyes of the Attorney General. Now all the man had to do was convince his peers. And Lucien. John told her next that Lucien had decided to represent himself during the proceedings, further proof in Elizabeth’s eyes that he didn’t want to fight the charges. But they had to. They needed to hire a barrister. The finest one they could find. Then convince Lucien to allow the man to speak for him.

  Yet where to get the coin?

  “Sell the carriage horses,” she said suddenly. “Get as much money for them as you can,” though the thought of losing Lucien’s beautiful animals made her ill. It couldn’t be helped. “Use the money to find a barrister for Lucien, and to pay for better lodgings for him in Newgate.”

  John nodded, and did she detect a note of approval in his eyes?

  “If that does not raise enough money, then sell the carriage, too.”

  “I have a cousin you could stay with,” John said. “It would save the expense of your lodgings.”

  She nodded. “That would be appreciated.”

  “ ’Tis the least I can do.”

  She came forward, clasping his hands. “You are a good friend.”

  He didn’t pull away, just stared at their entwined fingers. Elizabeth grew uncomfortable for some reason, so she pulled away. “In the interim, I shall apply to my parents for a loan.”

  “Do you think they will help?” he asked, having been told of their disapproval.

  “I should hope so. And if they say no, then I shall sell my ring. Or go back to Raven’s Keep. That is Lucien’s by birthright, surely they have not seized that as well. And there is money there. Objects we can sell—”

  “There isn’t time, Elizabeth,” John interrupted. “Four days there and back, plus the time it will take to sell the items. Lucien will be put to the bench by the time you return.”

  She stared up at him mutely, her eyes filling with tears of frustration. “They have us over a barrel.”

  “That, I’m sure, was their intent.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Lucien is to be an example,” he theorized. “One does not kill a duke without repercussions, and now that the truth has been revealed, nothing will do but that he is made to pay.”

  “Who told them what happened?”

  John’s face grew hard. “Greshe.”

  “So it’s true? We have Lucien’s cousin as an enemy?”

  “He wants the title.”

  “Betrayed again,” she mused.

  “Aye,” John agreed.

  “Then there’s nothing left to do but pray,” Elizabeth said softly.

  “Aye,” John agreed. “For a miracle.”

  And Elizabeth did pray, though it did little good. During the next few days she did all she could to help Lucien—even though he still refused to see her—including the humbling task of applying to friends and family for loans.

  No one would give her money.

  Instead, they each encouraged her to separate herself from the duke, and when she refused, they each of them politely and oh so civilly showed her to the door.

  Elizabeth stung from it all.

  She knew now what Lucien must have felt when society had shunned him before. Knew how it felt to be condemned without benefit of a trial. It was the worst sort of betrayal, for it was a betrayal of friendship. She learned too late that even those that professed themselves as family could be far from that.

  Now, as she stood in her room, a room lent to her by one of John’s relatives, she felt unable and unwilling to believe that this could truly have happened.

  And yet, it had.

  There could be no denying it for it was all over The Times. Lucien St. Aubyn, duke of Ravenwood, would be tried for murder Tuesday next. Thank goodness Lucien had no access to the paper, Elizabeth thought, and that he was unable to read about the atrocities he had purportedly committed. But what truly made her ill was the way they portrayed her as the poor, duped wife. They claimed he’d married her as a way of gaining respectability. That he’d known he was to be brought up on charges and that he’d hoped their marriage might gain him sympathy with his peers. And most ludicrous of all the paper stated that perhaps he’d hoped his marriage might gain him more clout, for her father, while new to the peerage, was well connected to the crown.

  Connected? Hah?

  Her father was a cobbler’s son, a business they still owned. His only connection to the crown was a mad king who likely wouldn’t recognize him. But they made it sound like truth. And everyone believed it. The ton treated her with a combination of pity and condemnation—the poor cobbler’s daughter who had married above herself. She could barely stomach it all, but she stuck by her vow to see this through, stuck by it because she refused to let Lucien down. Enough people had done that, she reasoned. She would not do the same. So she worked behind the scenes, preparing herself for the coming trial with more grace and courage than she’d thought herself capable of, and all the while Lucien refused to see her. He stay interned with the common criminals, reasoning that he was a criminal himself.

  Elizabeth wanted to scream in frustration.

  The day of the trial dawned cold and overcast, drizzle casting a sheen on the leather tack of the swaybacked horse pulling the hired hack she rode in. The backs of the horses were wet. As were the windows to her left and right. She snuggled a scratchy wool carriage blanket closer, chilled to the bone, and not just because of the weather. John, next to her, glanced her way for a second. She mustered a brave smile that, sadly, wobbled and ruined the effect.

  She’d dressed well for the occasion, her attire meant to remind those who would watch her testimony that she was a nobleman’s daughter, for all that she was of common stock. She’d worn rose, the color bright, cheerful. The pelisse over the gown was maroon, the neckline moderate. She had piled her hair atop her head as best she could, although she feared she’d done such a poor job of it, the whole thing might come tumbling down as she stood at the bar.

  “Did he appear nervous last eve?” she found herself asking without even realizing she would.

  “He seemed well in control,” John answered, Elizabeth wishing for his thick brown trousers and black wool jacket to keep her warm.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin, trying hard not to let loose the silly tears his words evoked. “I am fine.”

  She was terrified. The fact of the matter was, she’d been called as a witness, but not by Lucien. No. Rather, she’d been called by the prosecution and that terrified her. Granted, she was under no obligation t
o testify for the law prevented a spouse from doing so. She, however, had agreed to do so of her own free will.

  “You are not a very good liar, Your Grace.”

  “I am nervous about testifying,” she admitted, “but who would not be?”

  She could feel his gaze as he stared at her, but he said nothing in return. Elizabeth felt grateful for that. The horses sloshed through a puddle, water kicked up onto the carriage’s floorboard with a splash.

  “I admire your courage,” he said, his kind blue eyes meeting her own. “You have held up admirably well given the circumstances.”

  She held his gaze. “Thank you.” But she had to look out the window lest the tears that threatened fell. Frankly, she felt ready to shatter. With the exception of John, she had no one in all of London on whom to lean. And even then, she didn’t know John well enough to use him for the support she desperately needed.

  “I will feel better once I give testimony.”

  “Will you?”

  She told herself she would. What she said at the trial might be the only positive thing someone would say about Lucien—if the Attorney General let her—with the exception of John, who also was to testify. As a result, her nerves stretched taut; her stomach rolled like a pot of boiling water. She didn’t know what she would be asked, but she knew that whatever it was, she needed to turn it somehow into a defense of Lucien.

  They both lapsed into silence. The ride was short, but as they neared Westminster, they slowed to a near crawl.

  “Spectators,” John observed from his side of the carriage.

  She nodded wordlessly as she looked outside. The Abbey rose to her right, people dotting the streets as they hurried toward the proceedings. They pulled up before the Hall. Less ostentatious than the Abbey with its plain stone facade and low roofline, the structure still set her heart to beating like a panicked horse. She wiped her hands on the carriage blanket, knowing that the next few hours would be difficult, at best.

  The crowd outside nearly mobbed them once they recognized her. One of the benefits of having one’s face plastered upon newspaper covers as well as being immortalized in satirical drawings featuring her in a wedding dress and Lucien as the devil incarnate. The drawings had appeared in nearly every London print shop to the point that Elizabeth was afraid to venture out. She had no such luxury now.

  Cries of, “There she is,” followed her into the building as well as, “The Duchess of Death.”

  A Charlie stopped her near the entrance, but once he recognized her, he let her pass. She barely noticed the interruption so intent was she on escaping the crowd.

  “This way,” John said, his voice swept up by the noise around them. The general public would not be allowed inside although there would be a few spectators. A vague impression of gray halls and muted light penetrated her vision as he led her toward the gold-gilt and oak-beamed room that was the House of Lords, or more correctly, to the narrow pit in the center of it. She stared straight ahead as those lords already in their seats noticed her arrival, the crowd of crimson-robed peers quieting. The chairs they sat in rose up at a steep angle, circling the pit, a walkway intersecting them midway like a longitude line around the circumference of a globe.

  Someone called for attention an interminable amount of time later. And with those words, it all began. Ceremonial proceedings first, the Lords’ Speaker entering followed by the Purse-bearer and other officials. Elizabeth sat in her seat, every nerve strained, her heart pounding hard enough to be heard outside her chest. The commission appointing the earl of Glashow as Lord High Steward was read, the Garter and Black Rod made their reverences and proceeded to their places on the right of the Lord High Steward. The indictment was read, the Lord High Steward then directed the sergeant at arms to make his proclamation for the yeoman usher to bring Lucien to the bar.

  Elizabeth sat forward in her red velvet seat. A door opened. She held her breath. Lucien entered. She fell back into her seat. He looked—well, not like she’d expected. His black jacket fit tight against his broad shoulders. Beneath the coat he wore a white shirt with a pointed collar and a lavish cravat. Light gray trousers with black half boots completed the ensemble. ’Twas the uniform of a man trying to look in control, of one who wanted to appear unfazed by what he now faced, but Elizabeth knew better.

  Her hands clutched as he was led forward.

  “He looks calm,” John observed, sitting next to her.

  “ ’Tis an illusion,” she murmured in an aside, knowing Lucien must surely want to wilt beneath the scathing looks directed his way. She watched as his lips tilted in his isn’t-this-amusing smile. But tension resonated from his shoulders, barely discernible, but there if one looked hard enough.

  Or knew Lucien well enough.

  And amazingly, she did. She tried to will him to look at her, but he merely stared straight ahead as he took a seat on a stool within the bar. The Lord High Steward moved to a table near him, preceded by the Garter, the Black Rod, and the Purse-bearer. It was all very tedious, this moving about, the positions they took undoubtedly meant to intimidate the accused. The Lord High Steward sat at the middle of the table, the Black Rod sitting on a high stool behind him and to his right, the official staff now held in his hands. The Garter took a seat upon a similar stool to the Black Rod’s right, the sergeant at the lower end of the table. They resembled a king and his court, which, Elizabeth conjectured, was exactly how they were supposed to appear.

  And then Lucien looked her way.

  Elizabeth felt instant tears slide onto her lower lashes as their eyes met, even though a part of her wondered why she cried for a man she told herself she didn’t love. She supposed ’twas because she could see the brief flash of anxiety that shone in his eyes. And so she smiled, trying to tell him without words that she was here for him.

  He didn’t smile back; if anything, his gaze hardened. Elizabeth almost choked.

  “You love him, don’t you?” John asked, keeping his words low so no one could hear.

  Did she? Could she love a man who didn’t care enough to see her? Who didn’t want her help? Who seemed to want to hang and leave her a widow? “I don’t know,” she admitted aloud, even as she suspected she knew well and good the answer to the question.

  “Well, if you do, I don’t know whether to congratulate you or pity you.”

  She glanced over at John. He looked as noble as any of the men in the seats below, but, she reminded herself, he was a nobleman’s son. Like Lucien, he’d been born too late to benefit from his father’s station. Unlike Lucien, he hadn’t dueled his brother and gained the title.

  “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” the Attorney General began. “Let me explain today’s proceedings …”

  And so it began, each member of the court coming forward to state their case. The indictment was reread, evidence was presented. Lucien stood up to speak. He nodded to the Lord High Steward, then the members of the House. And despite their obvious antipathy, they all nodded back, ever so civilly. Elizabeth felt hysteria rise in her throat.

  And then Lucien recounted the events of the duel, spoke publicly for the first time as to why he was innocent, but he didn’t sound like he believed himself, and that hurt his case, Elizabeth could tell, her hands clenching in her lap as she noticed the hardening of the faces around her. When he was finished, the Attorney General came forward to question him. Lucien responded in a clear, calm voice, his answers direct and to the point, even when the Attorney General implied Lucien might be responsible for more than one death, Elizabeth hearing for the first time the number of loved ones Lucien had lost. She waited for Lucien to turn and look at her, but he never did. Not even once. And for the first time Elizabeth understood where the word “heartache” came from. Her heart quite literally ached with a pain and made her eyes well with tears.

  The first witness for the prosecution was called forth. Elizabeth’s nerves stretched to the point that her stomach churned with anxiety and made her ill. Man after man was called
forward to state in no uncertain terms that Lucien had often remarked upon his brother’s good fortune to be born first. The Attorney General had gathered five to every one of Lucien’s witnesses. John disappeared as he was called.

  And then it was her turn. She placed her hands upon the bar, the wood it was made of reflecting back the gold-gilt trim of the room. She told herself to relax, and had the insane urge to stick her tongue out at them all.

  “Elizabeth St. Aubyn,” the Lord High Steward said. “You have been called as a witness for the prosecution. Will you testify of your own free will?”

  “I will, my lord,” she answered, surprised at how utterly confident and relaxed she sounded when inside she quaked like a shaken bottle.

  The Attorney General came forward, a studious-looking man if ever there was one. His gray barrister’s wig looked too small for his head, his robes unable to disguise his large girth. He had a ruddy face and even ruddier blue eyes, the man looking as if had spent most of his life in a state of drunkenness. Elizabeth disliked him on sight.

  “Elizabeth St. Aubyn, how long have you known the duke of Ravenwood?”

  She licked her lips staring at the assembled peers. One by one, she tried to meet their gazes. “I have known of him for many years. In fact, he first came to my attention when rumors surfaced that he’d seduced your daughter, Lord Glashow.” She picked out his lordship from the sea of crimson robes and smiled. “Over the years I heard of a great many more women he supposedly seduced, so many, in fact, that I wonder how his grace would have had time to plot a murder, much less execute it.”

  There were a few chuckles at her comment, as was her intent.

  The Attorney General did not look amused. “Can you describe to me the circumstance under which you met at Lady Derby’s ball?”

  She had been expecting the question and so met it head-on. “He compromised me.” She gave him a wry smile.

  “Ruined you?” the man clarified.