“If you won’t come to me, then I will come to you. The choice is yours,” I said, getting on my knees next to his bed so that my breasts were practically in his face. “Don’t you want me?” I asked petulantly, knowing that he was dying inside.
“Neve, please,” he whispered. “You are not ready. And the baby…”
“What about the baby?” I asked playfully. “It seems to be much more active than its father.”
I pulled back Hugo’s blanket and straddled him, grinding my hips against his, my eyes never leaving his face. I knew that’d be his undoing, and he reached up and gently cupped my breasts as I bent down to kiss him. “I need you, Hugo,” I breathed in his ear as I caught his earlobe between my teeth and nibbled it, making Hugo suck in his breath just as the cot collapsed beneath our combined weight.
“It seems you no longer have a bed,” I observed, giggling. “Will you come to mine or shall we sleep on the floor, because I’m not leaving?”
I fell onto the bed still laughing and pulled Hugo on top of me. He seemed to tense for a moment, unsure of whether he should be doing this, but nature won out, and he finally surrendered to his need for me, sliding into my body as carefully as if I were made of fine china.
“Let yourself go,” I murmured as I moved more aggressively, urging him to stop holding back. Hugo still seemed to be restraining himself, so I pushed him onto his back and impaled myself on him, moving my hips with deadly intent as I looked into his eyes. “Please, Hugo.” Hugo finally lost it and began to move inside me. His breathing was ragged as he raised his hips to meet mine and pushed harder, his desire obliterating his objections. I arched my back and moaned with pleasure as each thrust echoed in my womb, finally bringing me to a shuddering climax. As my body convulsed around Hugo, I felt happy for the first time in a fortnight.
Our bodies were still joined as Hugo pulled me against him and held me close as if he were afraid of losing me. I knew he felt torn between joy and guilt, so I took his face in my hands and kissed him gently. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said, stressing every word as I stared into his eyes. “Do you hear me? None of it was your fault.”
“You don’t know the whole truth,” he muttered, but I continued to hold his face, staring him down.
“I do. I know about Jane’s part in my arrest; I heard you talking. Hugo, there is nothing — nothing — you could have done to make Jane behave as she had. Whatever she believes you, or me, to be guilty of, doesn’t begin to explain her actions. So, please stop blaming yourself; it’s counterproductive,” I added, for lack of a better word.
I felt Hugo let out his breath like a deflating balloon. He buried his face in my shoulder, unable to face me. “Neve, my own sister denounced you and paid to have you arrested. She wished for you to die, and die horribly — alone and abused. You keep telling me that it’s not my fault, but I keep thinking that perhaps I’d done something to cause this, have hurt her in some way, or insulted her pride. What she did was not against you, it was against me. It was done to hurt me, to destroy me so completely that I would be reduced to nothing.”
“Hugo, you haven’t done anything, and even if you had, she’s your sister. She’s meant to love you and forgive you, or at least talk to you. What she’d done was monstrous. She condemned not only me, but our child to death. This wasn’t about some minor slight to her pride, this was a vicious attack against both of us — an attack meant to divide and destroy. If you pull away from me, she would have succeeded, if only in part.” I wrapped my arms around Hugo and held him close; needing to fill the hole in his heart that Jane’s betrayal had carved so mercilessly.
I rolled off Hugo and pulled the coverlet over me. The fire was dying down and the room had grown colder; the wind howling outside like a desolate woman moaning with inconsolable grief. Hugo slid in next to me and pulled me close, making me feel safe and loved. But, I still needed answers, and the time had come for Hugo to come clean.
“Hugo, how did you get me out of prison, and is anyone looking for me? I need to know if I’m ever to have any peace. You must tell me the truth,” I added sternly, knowing that he’d try to protect me by withholding the worst of it.
“I don’t think anyone is looking for you because they believe you to be dead,” Hugo answered reluctantly. His face was illuminated by the dying embers, making him appear slightly demonic, his eyes dark holes in his pale face and his two-tone hair reminiscent of some punk rocker.
“What?!” I gasped, raising my head to gape at Hugo. “Why would anyone think I’m dead?”
I could hear Hugo’s labored breathing as he worked up the courage to tell me the truth. It seemed that I hadn’t been released legitimately, or even broken out of prison by paying someone off. There was more to it, something that Hugo had been keeping from me.
“Neve,” he finally said, “Archie and I did something terrible to get you out. You see, there was no other way. Legally, we could do nothing at all, and to just help you escape would not only alert the authorities, but bring attention to the fact that I must be in London, since you are known to them as my mistress, thanks to Lionel Finch and my sister. The risk was simply too great.”
“Hugo, what on earth did you do?” I breathed.
“Archie found a gaoler who could be bribed to give you a drink laced with laudanum. Anyone who would pass by your cell would assume that you’d died. The guard would then turn a blind eye as we exchanged your inert body for the body of a woman who was already dead. To anyone in the prison, it would appear as if a corpse were being removed for burial in a pauper’s grave, but in actuality, we removed a live woman and left a dead one in her place.”
“Where on earth did you get a corpse of a woman?” I asked, horrified by the implications of Hugo’s confession.
“We scoured several cemeteries, searching for a freshly-dug grave of a woman who was no older than thirty. It was hard to find since many graves of the poor have nothing more than a name and no age or date of death. We had to make sure that the corpse was fresh.”
“Dear God,” I breathed. “You went grave robbing?”
“We did. I carried you out wrapped in the woman’s shroud, so to answer your question, as far as the authorities are concerned, you are deceased.”
I felt a bubble of hysterical laughter well up inside my chest. I was now a non-entity, much as Hugo had been in the modern world. I supposed that I could no longer use my name as he couldn’t use his since he was being hunted. We were a pair of ghosts, people who no longer truly existed, but were very much alive. There would come a time when we’d need to prove our identity, but for now, we were better off as we were— invisible.
“I’m sorry,” Hugo whispered into my hair. “Please don’t think badly of me, Neve. I would have happily killed a woman with my bare hands just to get you out; I was so desperate. With every day that passed I knew that you were in greater danger. I was afraid that you might get assaulted or even killed once people discovered that you were the mistress of a suspected traitor.”
I shook my head against Hugo’s chest. “No one paid me any mind, except the rats. I was locked up in an individual cell, but I am so grateful that you did what you did. I couldn’t have lasted much longer. I suppose the needs of the living come before the needs of the dead, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do, but I will make sure the girl gets a proper burial and her own stone. We desecrated her body, Neve, to make it look as if she’d been imprisoned. I will never forgive myself for what we had to do to her. It was inexcusable, but we had no choice.”
“Hugo, what do you plan to do? Where do we go from here? We can’t hide in Brad’s house forever,” I said, realizing for the first time that Hugo hadn’t mentioned any plans for the future since I’d been back. Hugo shrugged. I knew he was in turmoil, but it wasn’t wise to rush into anything.
“I must confront Jane,” Hugo finally said.
“Hugo, if Jane is bent on revenge, she might betray you to the authorities. Right now, our only str
ength is in the fact that she doesn’t know where you are, or that I’m still alive. Perhaps you need to let this go for now.”
“I can’t,” Hugo replied stubbornly. “There must be retribution, but first I need to look her in the face and ask her why. I need to hear it from her lips; otherwise, I will never be at peace again. I need to understand what drove her to such lengths and know whether she feels any remorse,” Hugo explained.
“And will you be at peace if she tells you that she wanted me dead as well as our baby? Will that make you feel better?” I demanded, suddenly angry. I could understand his confusion and fury; I could understand his need for retribution, but we were in a precarious position, and this wasn’t the time for the examination of fractured family relationships. I couldn’t imagine that anything Jane said would make any difference, but Hugo obviously needed closure and would not be dissuaded from talking to Jane.
“I need to hear it from her. If that is indeed what she intended, then I will deal with the consequences, but I need to know for sure. And, there’s also the matter of Jem. No one has seen him since the summer. I’m worried about him, Neve. I must find out what happened to him.”
“Are you proposing to leave London then?”
“I am. Max is in good hands with Gideon Warburton. He’s working hard on Max’s behalf, so there’s nothing I can do at this moment. We must wait for the trial, so there’s nothing to be gained by staying in London.”
“Hugo, your disguise is no longer enough. Your own hair is growing out rapidly, and you can’t travel the countryside looking like yourself. It’s too dangerous,” I said, fearful for us both, for I had no intention of being left behind.
“Is there any other way of coloring my hair?” he asked. Hugo could still hide his growing hair under a hat, but it was only a matter of time until that would no longer work and raise many a suspicious eyebrow.
“I’ve heard of using henna to turn hair auburn or black walnut husks for brown, but you need bleach to turn hair blond. I don’t know if this will work, but I’ve heard of mixing vodka with lemon juice and sitting in the sun.” I had a Brazilian coworker who swore by this method for getting lovely blonde highlights, telling me that girls in Brazil did this all the time when they went to the beach. There wasn’t much blazing sun in London in October, nor did we have any vodka, but perhaps something could be improvised.
“Well, I suppose whiskey might have a similar alcoholic content, and lemons could be obtained,” Hugo mused. “As far as sunlight, do you think heat from the fire might do?”
“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. If it doesn’t work, you will have to shave your head.”
“A prospect I don’t relish.”
Chapter 21
Mellow rays of October sunshine pierced the gloom of the old-fashioned parlor, crowning the settle by the window in a halo of golden light. Dust motes lazily twirled in the shaft of sunlight slanting through the window to the rug covering the wooden floor, and settled on the heavy wooden furniture and faded tapestries decorating the walls. Jane bent her head over her crewel work, her hand shaking slightly as she stabbed the needle into the fabric and instantly pulled it out again. It went into the wrong spot, making Jane unbearably angry. She put aside the needle, and began to rip up her work in such a frenzied fashion that the young maid who came in to call her to luncheon froze in the doorway, stunned by her normally calm mistress’s behavior.
“Get out,” Jane roared as she continued to destroy the embroidery she’d been working on for over a month. Pieces of colored thread littered her skirt and the cushion of the settle, but Jane couldn’t stop until the whole pattern was torn out. She panted heavily as she hurled the piece of fabric across the room and covered her face with her trembling hands. Needlework had always been a source of solace to her, but over the past few months it had become a source of incredible frustration instead. Jane’s hands just wouldn’t obey as they used to, refusing to comply as she strained to focus on the work. Not only had her vision become blurred around the edges, but her once deft fingers seemed to tremble too much to achieve the precision required.
Jane sighed and looked with irritation around the room. She hated this room; hated this house; hated the memories it all brought, but she couldn’t go back to Everly Manor — not after what she’d done. Truth be told, she was scared. A messenger had arrived only a few days ago, informing her that Neve Ashley, accused of witchcraft and confined to Newgate Prison, had been found dead in her cell and subsequently buried in a pauper’s grave. Jane’s heart lifted for just a moment until she realized what this would mean to Hugo. She didn’t mean to hurt him, she really didn’t, but given the choice between her only son and her brother, she had to act according to the dictates of her conscience.
Clarence was the best part of her; the only part she could steal from the man she once loved, and the only thing that would be left behind once she was gone. Clarence must never know of course; he was only thirteen and as innocent as a babe in arms. He’d questioned Jane’s absence when she went to London, and then argued incessantly about leaving Everly Manor. He liked it there and hoped that his uncle would come back soon. Clarence didn’t want to return to Three Oaks, the house of his birth and childhood, a house where his mother had known only sorrow.
Jane finally forced herself to rise from the settle, brush the shreds of thread from her skirt and glide regally toward the dining room. She ate with great ceremony every day despite the fact that she dined alone. Clarence preferred to eat with his tutor, and that was just fine with her, but appearances needed to be maintained; Ernest always said so. Of course, he also maintained an appearance of being a devoted husband and father, but nothing was further from the truth. Jane regretted telling Neve her secret, but thankfully Neve took it to her grave. Hugo must never know that the marriage he so carefully arranged had never even been consummated. Her husband hadn’t wanted any part of her. Instead, he chose to spend his time with his devoted secretary, John Spencer, a man who also shared her husband’s bed for many years.
Of course, Jane didn’t know this when she first arrived at Three Oaks, determined to make the most of her marriage. George had seduced and abandoned her, but Jane wasn’t one for self-pity. She would build a new life, create a family and show George that he was nothing but a distant memory. But, things didn’t quite go as Jane planned. George was never far from her thoughts as she gazed upon Clarence, grateful that at least she had that much. Perhaps she would have married well had she not already been with child by George, but fate had other plans for her. Ernest had been kind and considerate, and acknowledged Clarence as his own, making him the heir to the Hiddleston estate, but he’d also used Jane to hide his proclivities from the world, giving the impression of a man devoted to his wife.
Jane glared at the portrait of Ernest hanging over the fireplace in the dining room. It had been painted in the same year as the portrait of Hugo, done by the hand of the same artist. The man liked making his subjects look stern and disdainful, but he couldn’t hide the softness in Ernest’s eyes or the twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Ernest had been an attractive man; a man Jane could have come to love had he ever seen her as anything more than a useful prop. Jane had tried her best to win her husband’s affection, but Ernest remained aloof and polite.
“Can you truly blame me?” Jane challenged the portrait, remembering the dark time in her life when she felt so lonely and unwanted that she’d turned to the only other man available to her at the remote estate. John Spencer had been younger than Ernest, and handsome in a chiseled, scholarly way. He’d always had a kind word and a smile for her, and later a secret touch or a seductive gaze. He’d often joined her for a walk in the garden when Ernest was out on the estate, and even took her on several picnics in a lovely meadow he’d shown her on one of their walks. He’d even played with Clarence, showering the little boy with praise and affection; unlike Ernest who never did more than inquire after his health and occasionally pat him on the head abs
entmindedly, much as he did with his daughter Magdalen.
Had Ernest ever paid any attention to her, Jane might have resisted John’s advances, might have acted with more propriety, but she was eighteen and she was lonely. She didn’t protest when John kissed her softly under the green darkness of the willow tree, or slid his warm hand under her skirt, caressing her inner thigh until she was panting with desire. Only then had he slid his fingers inside her, exploring her expertly and bringing her to the first orgasm she’d had since George. It didn’t take long for Jane to start seeking him out under the pretense of needing to ask him a question or for advice. John was always happy to oblige, taking her swiftly in an empty room or behind a bush as she lay sprawled on the lush grass with her skirts about her waist. Jane’s greatest fear in those days had been getting with child, since she wouldn’t be able to pass it off as her husband’s, but it seemed that life wasn’t finished playing cruel tricks on her.
She supposed John Spencer got some perverse pleasure from bedding both the husband and the wife, but he seemed to truly enjoy both sexes. He wasn't picky about whom he lay with as long as he found pleasure in it. At first, Jane protested when John took her in the rear, but he assured her that was the best way of keeping her from getting with child, so she agreed. She came to enjoy it in time, partly because John seemed to, but he pleasured her in other ways, especially when he disappeared under her skirts as she sat with her legs spread on a wrought iron bench, and John feasted on her as if she were water and he a man in the desert. He’d finally come up and kiss her, the taste of herself still on his lips as he slid his tongue into her mouth and whispered into her ear that it was her turn to return the favor. Jane didn’t enjoy pleasuring him as much, but she did it with relish, eager to please her lover and prove to him that she loved him.
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