by Corwin, Amy
She glanced up at Nathaniel. “I don’t understand, either. He did threaten to murder me once he forced me to marry him, but—”
“Well, there you are Miss Haywood. He threatened you. He is obviously the man who killed those two ladies,” Mr. Clark said. “He may have attempted to marry them: I gather they were both well-dowered. When they refused, the gent lost his temper. Now that would certainly explain his motives: simple frustration. Now, if you don’t mind, the coroner’s due at any moment. You ladies may wish to return to your box. We will take care of matters here.”
Nathaniel guided Charlotte to the door, and the Archers followed close behind. Lady Victoria murmured encouragement to Charlotte as they walked into the hallway.
“How are you feeling?” Nathaniel asked, interrupting his aunt.
Holding up her dress, Charlotte replied, “I am fine, I simply cannot—”
“Don’t worry,” Lady Victoria took her free arm. She gave Nathaniel a stern glance. “Your Grace, if you would request the carriage for us, please?”
“Certainly.” He hurried away toward the stairs while Charlotte gazed around, startled to hear the opera nearing the finale. She jumped at the sudden sounds of drums and cymbals crashing.
“Your poor dress.” Lady Victoria fiddled with the fabric, trying to tie up the shreds of material.
While she fixed one scrap of silk, Charlotte saw Mr. Archer wander back inside the room where Sir Henry lay. Another man entered, presumably the coroner, although he was dressed in evening regalia and appeared to have been attending the opera.
“If we retired for a moment, I am sure I could do something with this torn bodice,” Lady Victoria said. “At least no one will notice, and you will not be embarrassed.”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. I appreciate it, but it does not matter. I doubt I will ever wear this particular gown again.”
“Quite understandable. Then, do you mind if I step into our box for a moment? I am afraid I left my lace shawl on my chair.”
Charlotte nodded and waited in the corridor. There were quite a number of men and women strolling toward the stairs, perhaps hoping to escape the crush when the opera finally ended. Above the crowd, she could hear the soaring high notes of the final aria.
“Miss Haywood?” Lady Beatrice touched her elbow. “Did you enjoy the opera?”
Startled, Charlotte took a step back, bumping into the wall. “Why, yes, thank you.”
“I noticed you missed almost the entire last act. Whatever happened to you?” She touched the torn lace at Charlotte’s neck. Charlotte restrained herself from batting away Lady Beatrice’s hand. “Our box is directly opposite His Grace’s. I was so worried when you disappeared and did not return.”
Charlotte slid away. Where was Lady Victoria? “I caught my bodice on my bracelet when I was fixing my hair earlier. I am afraid I ripped it.”
“I see. How dreadful. That was such a charming gown, too. And where is the duke?”
“I am…not sure, exactly. Lady Victoria went to fetch her wrap—I am waiting for her. We are leaving.”
“As are we. However, I insisted on visiting the duke’s box before we depart. Perhaps he mentioned to his uncle that he has asked my father for an interview.” She smiled. “We have been expecting it, you know.”
Charlotte stared at her in confusion. Was Nathaniel simply trying to defend Charlotte’s honor by his proposal? After his actions this evening, she had hoped he truly did feel affection for her, if not love.
Her shoulders sagged.
Perhaps he considered himself honor-bound to offer for her. Her reputation had been pretty well shattered by tonight’s events. Despite Nathaniel’s warning to Mr. Clark, rumors were bound to spread.
“I suppose congratulations are premature?” Charlotte replied coolly, lifting her chin.
“Yes, but not by much. We are truly in love. Why, I believe I would still wish to marry him even if he were a commoner.” Lady Beatrice giggled. “Or a Colonial.”
“Indeed, then you are most assuredly in love.”
She tucked a hand through Charlotte’s arm, although Charlotte tried to inch away. “I have the most delightful idea. He must be here, and I so wanted to see him tonight. Shall we find him together?”
“Why don’t we wait here? Lady Victoria will be out momentarily and His Grace went to order the carriage. He will return soon.” Charlotte tried to remain friendly, recalling the sad holiday they had both spent at boarding school.
Lady Beatrice only wanted to believe she was loved by someone as popular as the duke. She was lonely just like Charlotte.
She smiled, suppressing the dismay growing inside her.
“Oh, but my mother and father are waiting, too,” Lady Beatrice said. “I told them I would be but a minute and the stairs are right here. Let us simply go down. I am sure His Grace is there. You did say he went to order the carriage, did you not?”
“Yes, however….”
Lady Beatrice smiled reassuringly and propelled Charlotte forward with a firm hand on Charlotte’s back. As they approached the top of the stairs, Charlotte hesitated, not trusting Lady Beatrice despite her efforts to extend the hand of friendship. It would suit her sense of humor to further extend that hand and give Charlotte a shove to send her sprawling down the stairs to land in a heap at Nathaniel’s feet.
When she paused, Lady Beatrice transferred her hand to her Charlotte’s arm. “Oh, help me, please, Miss Haywood! My garters are coming undone.” She dived into a small, curtained alcove and bent over, lifting her white silken skirts.
Charlotte stood by, filled with uncertainty. She pushed at the heavy curtain to keep it away from her hair and dress. Small puffs of dust wafted out of the folds. The small corner smelled of mildew and damp wood. She sneezed and eyed the stained walls while Lady Beatrice retied her stocking.
“Miss Haywood, peep out and tell me if anyone is there. I am so embarrassed. It would be dreadful to have my betrothed see me with my stockings hanging about my ankles.”
It was so precisely like Lady Beatrice to assume she was affianced to a duke before he even asked her. But then, Lady Beatrice didn’t realize that the duke had already offered for Charlotte instead, in an attempt to salvage her honor.
After studying Lady Beatrice’s bent head, Charlotte turned slightly and glanced out. If the opera was still underway, she could no longer hear it. The flood of theatre-goers had increased. The hall was filled with a muted roar as patrons laughed and yelled at each other, trying to be heard above all the commotion.
“I don’t see him,” Charlotte said, glad for the refuge of the quiet corner as the crowd jostled past.
Before she could turn back to Lady Beatrice, Charlotte was pushed forward. She threw her hands up to keep her nose from smashing into the plaster wall. “What are you—” Charlotte’s voice was cut off. Something encircled her throat and tightened painfully.
She reached up, clawing at her neck, trying to wedge her fingers under the cord. She choked. Her lungs burned as she gasped for air. Her head throbbed as the burning constriction around her neck intensified.
The soft, red-tinged light grew even more vague and fuzzy. Her hands moved frantically, trying to loosen the cord. She grabbed something soft, but it ripped away without providing relief.
Unable to get her fingers under the cord, she pushed her hands against the wall, thrusting her head backward. The pressure lightened briefly—enough to gasp one sweet breath—before the cord bit into her throat once more.
Blood thundered in her ears. A dark, crimson haze suffused her vision, and she staggered, her knees slowly buckling.
She had been a fool. Lady Beatrice had never changed. She was still the same, bloody-minded girl she had been in school.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the case of an assault not committed in his presence, the constable would not be justified in arresting the accused person, unless it was evident that a serious assault had been committed, or a dangerous wound give
n. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
“Charlotte! Charlotte! Can you hear me?” Nathaniel asked, cradling Charlotte’s unconscious body in his arms.
He pressed a damp handkerchief to her forehead, watching anxiously as her eyelids fluttered. Without warning, she coughed, gasping for air and struggling to breathe, obviously in pain. Her elbow dug into his stomach as she tried to sit up.
“You are safe,” he murmured against her damp hair.
Despite her attempts to push him away, he held onto her, relieved to feel her living warmth against his chest.
“What….” she wheezed in a rasping voice. He watched the muscles in her throat tighten as she tried to swallow, but she only coughed harshly before gasping for more air.
Nathaniel raised her shoulders and held a glass of brandy against her lips. “Drink this. Just a sip.”
He tipped a trickle of alcohol into her mouth and supported her while she choked it down. After swallowing, she wrapped her arms around her head protectively, curling in upon herself, pushing him away.
The gesture sliced into his heart.
He had failed to protect her, even though he knew she might be in danger. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he tightened control over his rage and fear at nearly losing her.
He thrust the glass against her lips again although she batted at his hand. When he tilted it up, she swallowed with difficulty, gasping for air.
“Again,” he demanded.
Charlotte pushed his hand away and stared beyond his shoulder. Behind him, he could hear Cheery’s soft tread.
Despite his approach, Nathaniel ignored his friend. He poured more brandy into the glass from the bottle on the floor next to him. He forced it against her pale lips and cursed himself under his breath.
Why had he been such an idiot? He instinctively knew Sir Henry had not killed those women, however he had never considered a woman might be responsible. The crimes seemed so brutal. Who would have suspected that delicate-looking Lady Beatrice would use a marble statuette from her gardens to kill a rival?
Even Cheery had been surprised. Or at least he seemed to be, although it was never easy to tell with his impassive face.
“Is she conscious?” Cheery asked.
“Barely.” Nathaniel slid his arm more firmly around Charlotte, studying her wan face. Her eyes were searing red and there was an ugly, purple line of puffiness around her neck. Cold fury sheared through him again—a frigid gale of emotion.
“Thank God you came back in time,” Cheery said, bending down to pick up the bottle and refill the glass. “How did you happen to find her?”
“The curtain billowed out. I batted it aside on my way to my box and accidentally hit Lady Beatrice. I still might have gone past thinking I was disturbing a pair of overly amorous lovers when I caught sight of copper-red hair.”
He touched the flaming curls. A stray lock wound around his finger.
“Provident she is a redhead, eh?”
Nathaniel eyed him coldly.
Cheery shrugged and gestured with the brandy bottle. “Get another few drops into her. It will help her throat.” He glanced around as someone else approached. “Lady Victoria, your ward is nearly recovered, I believe. And I was sent with the news the carriage is here and ready.” He pulled the curtain aside and glanced into the small niche. “What is this?” He picked up a torn bag. “Lady Beatrice’s reticule?”
Nathaniel scowled before snarling, “Leave off, will you?” He didn’t give a damn if Cheery found a pot of leprechaun gold.
A few items tumbled out of the ripped pouch. One of them glinted in the candlelight. A small blue object flecked with gold. Cheery picked it up. “This would not be yours would it?”
Nathaniel glanced at the thing in his friend’s hand. A twisted lump of lapis lazuli. “Yes, damn it.”
Cheery chuckled and handed him the fob. “Get that hook fixed before you lose it again. Damn nuisance leaving evidence lying about like that.”
“What about Lady Beatrice?” Nathaniel changed the subject as he took the fob and shoved it into his pocket. When Charlotte tried to squirm away, he tightened his embrace, remembering how close he had been to losing her.
He would never forget the searing intensity of purpose in Lady Beatrice’s face as she stood behind Charlotte, tightening the noose around her neck. Nathaniel had gripped Lady Beatrice’s shoulder and pulled her away from Charlotte’s sagging form, forgetting how close they were to the top of the stairs.
Lady Beatrice had stumbled away and stood wavering, flapping her arms for several seconds. Newton’s law of gravity finally caught hold of her and pulled her down the staircase. Her shrill screams reverberated above the riotous clatter of the departing audience as she tumbled backwards down the wide, marble stairs.
“She will most likely survive,” Cheery said. “Though I suspect she has a broken leg and arm, if not worse.”
“Too bad she did not break her neck.”
“It will not be long before that happens, if she is lucky and does not just strangle when the hangman drops her.”
Nathaniel glared at Cheery. “Do you have to be so damn satisfied?”
“It is not everyday a fellow catches a murderess and a kidnapper.”
“You did not even know it was Lady Beatrice, neither of us really knew.”
“Did I not?”
Nathaniel’s brow rose. “If you did, you were remarkably silent about it. You should have warned me.”
“A gentleman does not go about accusing highborn females. That is one lesson I learned thoroughly eight years ago.”
The significance of his casual remark did not escape Nathaniel. It had taken a great deal of skill for Cheery to avoid the noose when his father had been murdered by a most unexpected killer. The experience left him with better reason than most to mistrust women.
Nathaniel nodded. “You don’t think she killed Lady Anne and Miss Mooreland just because I danced a few times with them, do you? The idea is insane.”
Cheery’s dark face appeared sympathetic for a split second until the expression submerged below his normal, more saturnine appearance. “You danced twice with each one of them, and thrice with Lady Anne. You even fetched refreshments for them. What were you thinking, Dodger? A true misogynist should have been a little less eager to feed and traipse around the dance floor with so many ladies.” He chuckled when Nathaniel tried to protest. “And Lady Anne was apparently so enthralled by your company that she followed you—a fatal error in judgment. She should not have pursued you quite so energetically. I gather Miss Mooreland was also fairly persistent.”
“I wish they had not been,” Nathaniel said tiredly.
“Being a duke is not always the easiest position in the world, is it?” Cheery asked.
“Some days it is more like hell than you might imagine.”
“Ah, yes, but think of all those lovely succubae inhabiting the nether regions. Makes hell look almost…attractive.”
Nathaniel ran a finger over the twisted edges of the lapis in his pocket. “How did she get this, do you think? I swear it could not have been left by Lady Anne’s body. The fob was already missing before I ever went near that spot.”
“But you were near Lady Beatrice, were you not?” Cheery asked. “Several times, in fact, during the evening. I imagine she simply twitched it off your watch chain while you were dancing.”
He nodded. “I suppose it is the only reasonable explanation. But I hate to think of her planning to kill Lady Anne and Miss Mooreland like that. It does not seem possible that a woman could be responsible.”
Cheery shrugged. “Women are much more adept at planning things like that than we give them credit for. In my experience, in any event.”
His words brought to mind one moment after a waltz when Lady Beatrice had seemingly tripped, and her hand had brushed Nathaniel’s waist. The movement had been so provocative he had naturally assumed she was flirting with him.
That had to be when he lost his lapis fob.
Perhaps, she initially hoped to use it as an excuse to visit him, and then later recognized the fob’s value as a way to blackmail him into a proposal. At least he hoped it was later. It was disturbing to think that might have been part of her scheme from the beginning.
It all seemed incredible.
Charlotte coughed again and tried to curl into a ball.
Nathaniel cradled her head against his chest and then picked her up. “Do something at least moderately useful, will you Cheery? Clear the way and make sure the carriage is out front. Then find the Archers. We are leaving.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
At the top of the stairs, Nathaniel looked back at the tall, black-clad figure. “And thanks.”
“You solved it,” Cheery said with a careless wave.
“But I did not realize it,” Nathaniel paused and studied his friend. “When did you decide it was Lady Beatrice?”
“Did you ever look at the back of Miss Haywood’s list? Did you see the drawing of Lady Beatrice?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Did you notice her dress?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel replied impatiently.
“You did not look closely enough, then. There were stains on the front.” Cheery’s dark eyes glittered with amusement. “I asked Miss Haywood about them. She poetically described them as venom from Lady Beatrice’s fangs.”
“What is the relevance of that comment? She had spots on her dress because she bumped into a footman carrying a tray of wine. It was a trivial accident, nothing more.”
Cheery shook his head. “You are wrong. I questioned her new footman, Tom Henry, about it. First off, she had to have gotten at least a little blood on her dress when she killed Lady Anne. You, yourself, noted you could not be the murderer because you had no blood anywhere on your person.”
“But, she did not have blood on her, either!”
“Not after she deliberately bumped into that footman carrying the glasses of Madeira. The wine effectively hid any existing blood splatters. And you apparently missed the charming episode where Lady Beatrice stepped on the footman’s hand and ground it into the broken glass. It seemed an excessive form of revenge until I realized she might have had another purpose entirely. His blood was an excellent excuse for the bloodstains on her shoes.” Cheery shrugged. “A quite unnecessary action, of course. No one noticed her stained shoes. However I believe she was acting impulsively. In her haste, she must have thought it was a clever move. If she had not been so needlessly cruel, I might not have suspected her. But of course, there was also the fact that the murderer always stood behind the girls.”