“But you had the handkerchief—”
“I followed the nursemaid to the park one day and pretended to admire the babe. Whilst I did this, I filched the handkerchief. Simple, really.”
Sybil smiled complacently, and Rosie’s relief that Sophie and Libby were safe faded to the awareness that she’d walked right into this deranged woman’s trap. She had two options: use the pistol she’d secreted in the pocket of her skirts—or keep Sybil talking, delaying until Caster got her note and sent in reinforcements.
Eyeing Sybil’s steady grip on the firearm, Rosie decided that delaying was a better choice. By the time she had her pistol in hand and ready to shoot, she might already have a hole through her.
“So you were behind everything?” she said, trying to buy time. “You poisoned Daltry, hired a cutthroat to kill me?”
Sybil inclined her head.
“Was it all for the money?”
“Money was part of it. Not all.”
“Why, then?” In an effort to draw the other in, Rosie kept her tone conversational. “Why would you, a well-bred lady, go to such lengths for two thousand pounds per annum?”
“Don’t you listen? I said it was not just because of the money.” Rage entered Sybil’s voice.
“Then what made you resort to murder?”
“I hated Daltry.” Sybil’s expression was arctic. “He owed me for what he did to me.”
A new chill permeated Rosie’s insides. “What did he do?”
“He forced me to have relations with him.” Ice glittered in the other’s pale blue eyes. “For years, I had no choice but to endure his advances.”
Rosie stared at her. “Why… why didn’t you tell someone? Surely your aunt—”
“Would have disowned me if she knew the truth. Daltry was blackmailing me, you see. Five years ago, he discovered my indiscretion with my aunt’s butler. I was in love; my lover was older than me and lower in rank, yet I was planning to run off with him. Daltry found out and paid my lover to leave me. Soon thereafter, I discovered I was with child.” Bleakness deadened Sybil’s voice, and, despite everything, empathy surged in Rosie. “I would have been ruined had Daltry not offered me a way out. He brought me to a midwife who took care of my ‘problem.’ And he vowed never to tell anyone of the sordid truth—as long as I went to his bed and did whatever he wanted. And so I did. For five long years, I did.”
To think she’d been married, even briefly, to that monster made Rosie nauseous.
“I’m sorry, Sybil,” she said, her throat tight. “No one should have to endure such things.”
Sybil’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need your pity. I got something better: revenge. Before Daltry eloped with you, he paid me a final visit. Here in this shabby apartment that he used for our rendezvous. He crowed about finding a pretty young thing to breed his heirs—and that was when I knew I had to act.”
“Because you didn’t want his fortune to go to his heirs?”
“Because if he married you and had heirs, then Peter wouldn’t inherit.”
“Peter… you mean Mr. Theale?” Rosie said in surprise. “Is he involved?”
“Peter knows nothing of what I’ve done. We are in love, and he is a good man, but he cannot marry me because of his debts. He has been forced to consider offering for a merchant’s daughter—and I couldn’t let it happen.” Sybil’s lips pressed together. “I couldn’t allow Daltry to stand in the way of my happiness again. So I made the trip to Gretna and surprised him.”
More pieces fell into place. “He was with you… before our wedding night?”
Sybil gave a grim nod. “It didn’t take much to entice him. Daltry was nothing if not a lecher and a vain one to boot. He actually believed my Banbury Tale that I’d followed him like a lovesick fool, not wanting to let him go. We tupped, and afterward, we toasted, and he drank the wine I’d laced with foxglove. Then he went back to you, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Seeing the demented gleam in Sybil’s eyes, Rosie prayed that Caster had received her note. I have to keep Sybil talking until he arrives.
“But it isn’t quite,” she said. “Because after you killed Daltry, you also tried to kill me.”
“I do regret that.” Sybil stood. “Again, the blame lies at Daltry’s door. He was the one who altered the terms of the will, leaving his fortune to you instead of Peter. This left Peter in direr straits than ever—unless you remarried or met an early demise. I couldn’t wait for the former to happen: Peter was too close to offering for that tea merchant’s girl. So I had to get rid of you.”
Get rid of me—as if that were nothing more than tossing out an old slipper!
Rosie quelled a shudder. “Did you hire the cutthroat to assassinate me? Did you kill him too?”
“When I learned the contents of Daltry’s will, I panicked. Given that I’d poisoned Daltry, I didn’t want to poison you for fear of rousing suspicion. So I hired the cutthroat. It turned out to be a mistake for he demanded full payment despite his failure to complete his task. Since I couldn’t trust him not to talk, I had to take care of him too.” Sybil shrugged. “All it took was a bottle of cognac laced with foxglove.”
Shaking her head, Rosie said, “Do you think Mr. Theale will want to be with you knowing what you’ve done?”
“Peter will never find out the cost for our happiness. Being with him and having my freedom are worth any price.” Sybil’s face blazed with righteous conviction. “Daltry deserved what he got for making me suffer. Finally, I will have my happy ending.”
“I’m sorry for your suffering,” Rosie said quietly, “but that does not give you the right to cause suffering to others. I’ve done nothing to you.”
Sybil’s lips pressed together, and Rosie felt a spark of hope—which was snuffed out when the other came closer, waving the gun at her. “Time to drink your tea.”
What kind of fool does she think I am?
“I’ll not drink your poison,” Rosie declared.
“You’d rather die with a bullet in your brain?” The gun’s cold muzzle dug into Rosie’s left temple. “Because those are your choices.”
She had a third choice—and now was the time to act upon it. If Sybil truly meant to shoot her, she’d have done so already. No, the other wanted her to die from poisoning: a cleaner method of murder and one that would be more difficult to prove.
Over my dead body. Hopefully, not literally.
“All right,” she said quickly. “I’ll drink the tea. But I can’t very well do so with a pistol embedded in my head.”
While the pressure on her temple eased, Sybil remained at her side, keeping the weapon trained on her. “Be quick about it.”
Rosie reached for the tea cup with one hand, the other slipping beneath the table, into the hidden pocket of her skirts. She gripped the handle of the loaded pistol.
She paused, the cup’s rim inches from her lips. “May I have some sugar? I like my tea sweet.”
“Stop stalling,” Sybil snapped, “or I’ll just shoot you and be done with it.”
Rosie whipped out her pistol, had a moment to aim for Sybil’s shoulder before squeezing the trigger. The blast and Sybil’s scream filled the room. Rosie stumbled backward from the table, clutching the gun.
The door flew open. At the sight of the large figure filling the doorway, a dizzying wave of relief crashed through her.
“Andrew,” she breathed.
The next instant, her knees crumpled. Strong arms caught her. She found herself looking up into her beloved’s face, his blazing eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
“No.” She shook her head, a bit woozy. “I shot her.”
The fire slowly banked in his eyes. His lips quirked. “Then there’s no use fainting after the fact, sunshine.”
“Did I… is Sybil…?”
“She’s alive, my lady. ’Tis just a flesh wound.” She turned her head at Jem’s voice; she hadn’t noticed the groom’s presence—or the other men’s. He a
nd two guards surrounded Sybil, who remained lying on the ground, her chest rising and falling in shallow surges.
“We’ll staunch the bleeding,” Jem went on, “and she’ll live to see justice served.”
With a nod, Rosie turned back to Andrew. “How did you find me?”
“I had a guard watching you. He saw you leave the house alone and sensed something was amiss. So he followed you here, sent word to me.”
“Thank you for protecting me,” she said softly.
“Don’t thank me.” His expression was stark. “I’ve done a shoddy job of keeping you safe. You protected yourself.”
“You gave me the pistol, remember?”
“I didn’t think you’d actually have to use it.”
He sounded so disgruntled that she was tempted to smile. Instead, all the feelings she had for this strong, beautiful man pushed to the surface.
“I love you,” she blurted. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t let you explain about Kitty.”
His pupils flared. Before he could say anything, footsteps pounded down the hallway. The next instant Papa stormed in, Harry and Caster on his heels.
Ashen-faced, her father said, “Poppet, are you—”
“I’m fine.” Exhaling, she smiled shakily at him, then at Andrew. “My troubles are finally behind me.”
Chapter Forty
The next evening, Rosie sat with the ladies of her family in her drawing room. Mama and Aunt Helena shared the settee next to Rosie’s chaise whilst Emma, Thea, and Polly occupied curricle chairs. Violet, never one to sit still, wandered around the room munching on bonbons and fiddling with things.
“It is such a relief for the business to be over,” Mama was saying.
“Indeed. Sybil Fossey was more cunning than I’d given her credit for.” A notch formed between Emma’s brows. “Thank heavens she is safe behind bars at Newgate.”
“According to Ambrose, she might end up in Bedlam eventually,” Mama said.
“I think an insane asylum is a fitting place for Sybil. Then again, it wasn’t me she tried to murder.” Canting her head, Em said, “How do you feel about it, Rosie?”
Despite Sybil’s evil intentions, Rosie had a degree of empathy for the other, who’d suffered greatly at Daltry’s hands. It didn’t excuse Sybil’s actions, but it did make them more understandable.
“Bedlam’s no stroll in the park,” she said quietly. “And I think it’ll be easier for the rest of her family to have her in a hospital rather than in gaol… or worse. As it is, Lady Charlotte and Eloisa are beside themselves.”
“They truly had no idea that Daltry had been blackmailing Sybil all these years?” Polly’s aquamarine eyes shone with sympathy.
Rosie shook her head. “They didn’t know about her affair with the butler, her terminated pregnancy, or her forced relations with Daltry. Whenever she needed to get away, she would use the excuse of visiting her friend Miss Bunbury. When Mr. McLeod stopped in Lancashire, he discovered that Miss Bunbury had, in fact, died many years ago.”
Shuddering, Polly said, “How is Peter Theale taking the news?”
“He’s distressed, naturally,” Rosie said, “and shocked to discover that the woman he loves is capable of murder.”
“Thunder ’n turf, I’d be shocked too,” Violet exclaimed. “But what shocks me more is that Mrs. James was carrying on with her own stepson! Remember how hoity-toity she was toward us? Someone ought to tell her about glass houses.”
In his investigation in Kent, Mr. Lugo had found several shopkeepers who did indeed recognize Mrs. James; all of them had put her in the company of a younger fellow who seemed like an “intimate friend”—and who fit the description of Alastair James. When confronted, the Jameses had confessed to their affair; Mrs. James also admitted that she’d first learned the details of the shooting from her lover. She’d begged to have their affair kept under wraps in order to avoid a ruinous scandal.
Rosie, knowing the hurt that gossip could inflict, had assured the other that she would say nothing. A grateful Mrs. James promised to repay the favor by throwing her considerable social weight behind Rosie, and her support, along with the Lady Charlotte’s, would cement Rosie’s position in the upper echelons.
The irony was supreme: now that Rosie had everything she’d once wanted, she realized it meant nothing. Respectability, acceptance—none of it meant a thing without Andrew.
Her heart clenched. Why hasn’t he come to me?
“Glass houses aside, I, for one, prefer to have Mrs. James as a friend to Rosie rather than an enemy,” Mama said. “My daughter has been through enough peril for a lifetime. And I have done enough embroidery to last two lifetimes.”
Now that the threat to her life was over, Rosie found herself confronting an even larger catastrophe. Unable to stand it any longer, she burst out, “Why hasn’t Andrew called upon me? It’s been an entire day.”
Glances skated around the room.
Polly spoke first. “Perhaps because he wanted to give you time to recover? You’ve been through a lot, dearest.”
“Would Revelstoke stay away if you’d been held at gunpoint by a madwoman?” Rosie said.
Looking chagrinned, Polly shook her head.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to compromise your newly restored reputation,” Thea put in.
“But he could have come to me privately last night…” Rosie stopped short, casting a wary glance at her mama and Aunt Helena.
The two ladies looked at each other.
“Why is it,” Mama mused to her best friend, “that the younger generation believes they invented scandalous behavior?”
Aunt Helena’s brunette brows rose. “Because you and I are such paragons of propriety?”
The pair erupted into gales of laughter.
Rosie’s gaze veered heavenward. “Now that you’re done amusing yourselves, may we please focus on the situation at hand? That of my future happiness?”
Sobering, Mama said, “Of course, dearest.”
“What do you want for your future?” Emma said.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rosie threw her hands out in exasperation. “I’m in love with Andrew. I want to marry him.”
“Perhaps it is obvious to you,” Polly said reasonably, “but up until recently your goal was to be respectable at any cost. Does Mr. Corbett know of your change of heart?”
“Yes. That is, I think so.” Rosie bit her lip. “When he rescued me, I told him that I loved him. How much clearer could I be?”
Fear welled. Although she’d confessed her true feelings and apologized for not giving him a chance to explain about Kitty, he was keeping his distance. He hadn’t even responded to Papa’s invitation to supper. The behavior was unlike Andrew unless… unless he’d changed his mind about her? Had her shameful treatment of him driven him away?
“Love and marriage don’t always go hand in hand,” Mama said patiently, “and Corbett is a sophisticated man who understands that. While you may have told him that you feel the former for him, it seems to me that you’ve said nothing of the latter. Corbett has a sense of honor as strong as your father’s. Knowing his character, I’d wager he’s keeping his distance because he thinks it’s in your best interests. That you deserve better than what he has to offer you.”
The realization plunged like an arrow into Rosie’s heart.
“I’m the biggest ninny who ever lived,” she said in horror.
“Falling in love can do that to one.” A grin tucked into Em’s cheeks. “Don’t feel too badly. It’s happened to all of us.”
“Speak for yourself.” Vi plopped onto the chaise next to Rosie. “I retained my wits entirely during my courtship with Carlisle.”
“So says the lady who pushed her future husband into a fountain,” Em retorted.
“It was an accident.” Vi’s grin was reminiscent rather than repentant. “Besides, Carlisle didn’t mind. In fact, one time he got even by—”
“Dear heaven, spare us the intimate details,” Em mutter
ed.
“We ought to focus on Rosie’s dilemma,” Thea agreed. “Now, Rosie dear, are you certain you wish to marry Mr. Corbett? Even if it means giving up your hard-won respectability—not to mention your title and fortune?”
“All I want is Andrew,” she said simply.
With aching remorse, she recognized that while Andrew had always put her needs first—had protected her, loved her through it all—she’d not done the same for him. She’d only recently confessed her feelings… and apparently not as clearly as she ought to have.
“Then you must talk to Mr. Corbett,” Thea said with her gentle smile.
Rosie nodded absently. A plan was already formulating in her head. Andrew deserved more than mere words: he deserved to be shown in no uncertain terms just how much he meant to her.
~~~
“We’ll finalize the details in the upcoming weeks.” Andrew pushed the contract across the desk. “For now, I’ve had my solicitor draw this up.”
Across the desk, his new partners looked at him.
“You’re certain you want to do this?” Grier said gruffly. “It’s your life’s work—”
“And you’re signing it away for a song.” Sitting next to Grier, Fanny frowned in concern. “You nicked in the nob, Corbett?”
He wasn’t. For the first time, his head was on straight, and he was thinking clearly. He saw now that, somewhere along the way, his life had turned in the wrong direction. He wasn’t the man he wanted to be. Needed to be—in order to be deserving of Primrose.
I love you… I’m so sorry I didn’t let you explain about Kitty.
The words wrought an exquisite pain, tightening his throat. One day, he hoped that he would have an adequate explanation to give Primrose. That he would be worthy of her love. But right now it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to give up her bright future—her title, place in society, and wealth—for a man who had abandoned her so unforgivably. Who didn’t even know where he was headed next.
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 30