“Frazier told me where to find you.”
Bay kept his smile in place, but his throat constricted. Lady Anne Whitley, cloaked from head to toe in widows’ black, edged up to the carpet, the silver barrel of her gun glinting. Bay took a deep breath, confirming his fears. The weapon had been fired recently, but he’d heard nothing out here except the birds, the waves, and the wind.
“He didn’t want to tell me. Loyal to a fault, he is.”
“I hope you haven’t done something foolish, Anne.” He kept his voice steady, but as loud as he dared, praying that Charlie would stay put.
She shrugged, the hood of her cloak falling back. “He’ll live, if those stupid girls have their way. It was just a scratch.”
Frazier would have been on the road to the village, walking the Toothaker sisters home. Perhaps between the two of them they had helped him to safety and then had the presence of mind to send someone after Anne before she shot the second man of her evening. If something happened to Frazier—
Or to Charlie—
Bay would kill Anne himself.
He couldn’t think twice about it. The woman he had loved once had disappeared.
He watched the gun waver. She was as nervous as he was.
“Where is she?” Vitriol dripped from each word.
“Where is who?” he bluffed.
“Your whore, Bay. The little slut you ran off to Dorset with. That Charlotte.” She spat out the name as though its taste was foul. “You tricked me in London, Bay, sent me away. But I came back.”
He would never be free of her. Charlie would never be safe from her. Did Anne’s parents know the lengths to which she’d gone? Could they keep her confined before she did something desperate? Deadly? They had an aversion to scandal, had done their best to hush up Anne’s bigamy, turned a blind eye when Anne had complained of Whitley’s treatment of her. She’d had no one to turn to for years, except him, stolen moments in a broken life.
“We had a disagreement. She’s gone off somewhere. Surely you heard?”
“I’m sorry to have missed that.” She looked around at the little seraglio he’d created. “Very romantic. Wasted on a tart like her. You never learn, do you? Silly letters, extravagant gestures.”
The letters! That’s where the whole butterfly-nectar tripe came from, all those letters he wrote to Deb to keep her sweet. Charlie must have read more than the one about the necklace. He pictured her in a starched white cap, a frown on her face, poring over the little bundle that had been tied with a blue ribbon. At least she’d have them if he died, words that weren’t even written to her but had meant something just the same.
Bay flopped back on the carpet, inching toward the trunk that held his pistol. They had used it as a dinner table, the bottle of port and two glasses still resting on the surface.
“Do you mean to shoot me, Anne? I say, I’d much rather share the rest of this wine with you. If I’m about to meet my Maker, or more likely go to the devil, at least the pain of it will be dulled.”
“What good are you to me dead?”
“None, I should think. Do you still wish to go forward with your procreation plan? If so, holding a gun on a man is somewhat suppressive of any ardor he might manage. I confess despite the romantic setting, I’m limp as a willow branch at the moment. Not my best night, I’m afraid. What with the little whore lacerating me with her fishwife’s tongue and you threatening me with that pistol, my willy’s awfully weak.”
“You won’t fool me again, Bay. Don’t bother. Lie back.” Cocking the pistol, she smirked in triumph at him.
“Oh, Anne.” He failed to keep the despair out of his voice.
He could try to do as she wished, hoping she’d be so distracted Charlie would somehow emerge from the cave and run up to the house for help, if there was any to be found. He’d kept them short-staffed on purpose, protecting Charlie’s reputation. There was Mrs Kelly. Irene. A scrawny kitchen boy if he remembered correctly. Frazier was wounded, and with luck being tended to in the village. Two stable lads, callow youths with spots, probably sound asleep. His old coachman. Reinforcements were coming tomorrow, too late to save him from this calumny tonight. “You’ll deny me that glass of wine?”
He could topple the bottle, make a pretense of getting another inside the trunk, seize the weapon.
And then shoot her. Perhaps not to kill after all, but to send her own weapon flying into the sand. It was a good plan, the best he could come up with on short notice.
“You’ve had enough. Undo your breeches, Bay. Now.”
Charlotte stood in the oblong of moonlight watching, her heart in her throat.
She had done her business earlier, quite furious after the worst proposal in the history of mankind. Stewing a bit in the dark, she contemplated turning back into the hidden passage to reach the house, but it was pitch-black and the route was unfamiliar. She hadn’t the luxury of playing hide-and-seek and pirates in the tunnel to know where she was. Bay had said he and the servants had brought everything down to the beach over the lawn, so it would be most unwise of her to brave through decades of cobwebs to reach an equally dark cellar.
So she had sat on the swept floor to think, wrapping the cashmere robe around her. Bay didn’t know about the baby, yet he still had asked her to marry him. That was a good thing, she reckoned. There was no talk of duty or guilt. She might be old, but not too old to have his child. He’d be surprised when she told him, but she wouldn’t tell him yet. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be hers. She’d go out there and make him re-propose, this time with a few high-flown phrases, something a woman could cherish on a cold night when the silver in her hair outnumbered the ebony and her bright blue eyes were cloudy and gray. Perhaps she should ask him to write it in one of his infamous letters—his pen was much prettier than his tongue. Although his tongue had its uses. She had shivered with remembrance.
And then she had risen, gone to the secret door, and seen a menacing black wraith standing over Bay with a moonlit silver gun. Heard Bay’s bravado. Saw as he cleverly lounged toward the trunk and the disappointing result. Heard the ominous click of the pistol. The voices were subdued now, carried off by the wind.
There had been an old lantern in the corner. Silently Charlotte backed back along the wall, extending her bare foot. There. She touched cold metal. As she bent to pick it up, the handle came off in her hand and the lantern clattered to the floor, splintering, its echo sounding like cannon fire. Please God that Anne didn’t hear it and come to investigate. Charlotte didn’t doubt that Lady Whitley would shoot her dead without thought. But maybe the sound of the ocean and the gulls and Anne’s black beating heart obscured the noise.
Charlotte picked up a curved scrap. Could she use the lantern shards like a knife? She really didn’t think she had the strength to plunge a bit of broken metal into another human, no matter how worthy there were of dismemberment. But she had to do something.
She wouldn’t have time to delve into the trunk and get the gun, not that she would know what to do with it to begin with. She’d probably shoot Bay by accident and then she’d want to shoot herself. She had the belt to her robe—a garrote? The thought of strangling Anne was remarkably appealing, but Charlotte knew she’d lose her will or her footing, and the gun might go off. There was nothing for it. She returned for the chamber pot, tipping the contents into the bladed beach grass, using one of the linen rags to dry it out as best she could with trembling hands. Bay was prone now, the striped robe pulled up from his legs, the soles of his bare feet curiously innocent. Anne appeared to be sitting on him, her back straight, the gun not visible but undoubtedly trained on him. Anne was sick. Deranged and obsessed. And if anyone deserved to be crowned with a chamber pot, it was Anne Whitley.
Charlotte waited. There was murmuring, awkward shifting, then regular movement. She froze, realizing the full extent of what she was watching. But she needed to find her courage, find the right time to interrupt this hellish display when Anne would be too pre
occupied to expect anything other than fulfillment of her obscene fantasy.
Charlotte clutched the porcelain bowl with both hands, gliding across the evening-damp sand. The Man in the Moon winked and grinned down at her. If she succeeded, the story would be too good to ever tell, a joke she would share with the full moon and her husband. If she failed, the clouds would blot out all the light in her life.
She was so near. As was Anne, moaning, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. Charlotte was now close enough to see Bay’s pale face, his eyes shut, his mouth a grim straight line. Good. If he had been enjoying himself, she might have had to brain him as well. Raising her arms, she dropped the pot down with all her might. Anne swayed for a harrowing moment, then toppled to her side, a deafening roar following.
The gun had discharged harmlessly into the sand. Charlotte picked it up and flung it underhanded into the encroaching waves.
“Nice to see you. Excellent aim. On both counts.” Despite his blinding smile, Bay’s rough voice betrayed his anxiety. He was scrambling up, pulling the striped banyan down over a rather flaccid cock.
“I’ll marry you,” Charlotte said, her eyes suddenly moist. “But I want a proper proposal. The last one was rubbish.”
“I’ll do better tomorrow.” He pulled a long length of rope from the trunk and efficiently trussed up Anne’s arms. Squelching the desire to roll her into the sea, he tied her securely to one of the tent poles. Someone else would have to deal with her. He was done.
And a good thing too. For his brave Charlie had fainted, pitching backward onto the rug with an alarming thud, just like the first day he met her. This time he knew she wasn’t faking. He scooped her up and carried her back over the rocks and grass, heedless of his bare feet, shouldering his way into the closest room, which was the empty conservatory. The moon and stars shone through the glass ceiling, bathing the room in ghostly light. He laid her out on one of the wooden worktables and gently patted her cheeks.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your prince is here, and I will never, ever let you go.”
Chapter 23
Charlotte woke to the morning rhythms of Bayard Court, the rattle of a coal bucket, whispers and laughter on the stairs. The other side of the mattress showed no signs of disturbance. Bay had not ever come to the bed he’d tucked her into around midnight. He’d left her with a warm brick, a tot of brandy, and a kiss, off to the village to check on Frazier and see that Anne Whitley got more than a lump on her head. Gingerly, Charlotte touched her own goose egg. Her mama would have been disappointed that, once again, she’d failed to faint with grace.
She tried to rise, but quickly sank back onto the feather pillows. Dizzy and nauseous, and not just because of last night’s commotion. She felt weak as a kitten, although she was proud that she found the necessary strength last night to do the dirty work of dispatching Anne Whitley.
Lord, but her head hurt, but probably Anne’s was worse. Charlotte rolled carefully to reach the bellpull, then shut her eyes to ward away the dancing spots. She’d drunk altogether too much wine last night. Feeling her stomach lurch, she willed herself to lie still and wait.
It didn’t take Irene long to tap on the door and enter. Charlotte was relieved to see the maid brought two pitchers of water, one for drinking and one for washing up. Irene hadn’t said a word, but knew that Charlotte had been too sick first thing in the morning to swallow anything but Adam’s ale.
“Good morning, Miss Fallon! Such excitement last night! You’re a proper heroine, you are.” The girl poured Charlotte a tall glass of water and brought it to her bedside. “My, but you’re looking peaky. A bit green. Do you want a basin?”
“Not yet. Did you bring any crackers?”
Irene reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a linen napkin. “Here you are. Sir Michael says you’re not to worry yourself about getting up. I’m to bring breakfast to you when you want it.”
Charlotte took a deep swallow. “Where is he?”
“He’s downstairs with Mr. and Mrs. Buckland. Lady Whitley’s parents, you know.”
Charlotte shuddered. “And where is she?”
“Dr. Dixfield’s house in the village. You’re not to worry about her either. He’s got her under lock and key. Drugged her, too,” Irene said, her eyes lighting with satisfaction. “After what she did to poor Angus, he’s not letting her out of his sight.”
“Mr. Frazier will be all right, won’t he?”
“Oh, aye. He’s back home already, and Kitty is spinning in circles waiting on him hand and foot. The doctor said it was just a flesh wound. On his arm. Angus said it would take more than one crazy woman to kill him when the Frogs couldn’t. Everything will be all right, Miss Fallon, you’ll see.”
“I hope so.” She bit into a soda cracker and took another sip of water. Charlotte didn’t think Bay would want any of last night to become public knowledge. But the Toothaker sisters were witnesses to Anne’s desperation—how quiet could they keep? “Sir Michael hasn’t slept at all, has he?”
Irene shook her head. “I don’t believe so. He was busy with you, then getting the stable lads to watch over Lady Whitley while he went into the village to see about Angus and get word to the Bucklands. And then he came back and took that woman away. The boys are to take turns guarding the doctor’s house today. They said Lady Whitley screamed like a banshee all night long. Scared them silly, she did, cursing and whatnot. They’ll have something to talk about in the pub for years to come.” Irene opened the drapes and threw open the casement window. A fresh sea breeze wafted in. It looked to be another beautiful summer day.
And now the stable boys were involved, and hardly the strapping guards as would be needed to protect the world from Anne Whitley. Poor Bay. What a scandal it would be. Even if no one ever found out exactly how Anne spent her last unfettered minutes, the gossip would be relentless. Charlotte knew only too well its power. How could she and Bay marry and find peace at Bayard Court when they lived only a few miles from the Bucklands?
Charlotte made a second unwise attempt to get out of bed and was grateful when Irene caught her before she tumbled to the floor.
“Now, you stay put. Let me wash you up and do your hair, Miss Fallon. According to my mam, you’ll feel better in a month or two.” Irene blushed, lowering her eyes. “I hope I haven’t got ahead of myself, but I did notice.”
Charlotte blushed right back. “You haven’t said anything to Sir Michael, have you? I—I’m not sure yet, you know.”
Irene dipped a sponge into the warm water and proceeded to scrub Charlotte’s hot face. “’Course not. Nor to Mrs. Kelly either, but I think she knows. She always knows everything.”
Charlotte was quiet as Irene brushed and braided her hair, remembering Bay’s attentions yesterday after their swim. She really should wash the sea salt from her hair. Her body itched a bit, too. “I think I’d better have a bath this morning, Irene, if it’s not too much trouble for you girls. Don’t take Kitty away from Mr. Frazier, though. Goodness, the Toothaker sisters must be done in. Frightened, too.”
“Oh, we’ll be glad of our beds later. But you don’t know! In the shock of the shooting and all, Angus proposed to Kitty, so she’s more than happy. And Sir Michael has given everyone the day off tomorrow, and cash bonuses besides.”
Charlotte smiled, imagining tough Angus Frazier pouring his heart out. She hoped he did a better job of it than his master. “Please tell Sir Michael to come up here when he can, Irene. And don’t bother with my breakfast for a while yet. Just the bathwater.”
“Yes, miss. Right away.”
Charlotte waited until Irene disappeared before she spewed her water and cracker crumbs into the chamber pot. If she had to endure two more months of this, it would be hard going. But worth every unpleasantness. She rested a hand on her belly, imagining the tiny child within, a child that was actually going to have a father once Bay got his proposal right.
Summoning up her energy, she limped to the window to toss the contents out
onto the bush below, then leaned out to swallow up the day. That poor bush wouldn’t thank her for the regular morning insult. Friendly puffy white clouds shadowed the sea’s dazzling surface as they blew across the sky. The wind caught the tail end of Charlotte’s braid. It was a perfect day for a sail, if she dared trust her stomach. But Bay would probably spend the day in bed in well-deserved rest once he had tidied up the business of Anne Whitley.
What would become of her? Charlotte decided she could not feel sorry for the woman, despite things Bay had told her as he quickly wrapped her in the coverlet last night. No matter what the viscountess had suffered at the hands of Viscount Whitley, she had gone beyond the pale. Kidnapping, attempted murder, virtual rape, if a woman could actually rape a man. Charlotte had not thought it possible until she had seen it with her own eyes. Thankfully it had been too dark for details.
If Anne were not imprisoned somewhere, they would never be free of her. She posed a danger to them—and this baby. Charlotte had horrific visions of a figure in black, tossing the child into the sea.
Her hand gripped the windowsill. If she had to, she would leave Bayard Court, and all the worthy proposals in the world would not be enough to stop her.
Bay half listened in exhaustion as Mr. Buckland continued to sputter inarticulate inanities. Mrs. Buckland was silent, looking gray, her skin and hair blending into the gray dress she’d donned so hastily in the night. They had both seen their daughter for themselves in Dr. Dixfield’s study. Bay had had to pry her off once again when she threw herself at him in hysterics, then restrain her as she began to throw medical textbooks and bric-a-brac with abandon. The Bucklands had watched in relief when Jamie Dixfield forced her to swallow an opiate while Bay held her still, then watched in alarm as the doctor restrained her in his spare bedroom.
Bay had known Jamie Dixfield all his life. They were of an age, played together, drank together, even wenched together. As boys they both had worshipped the slightly older Anne Buckland from afar. “Young” Dr. Dixfield, who had succeeded his father, “Old” Dr. Dixfield, had looked about as sick as Bay felt during that fiendish hour as Anne thrashed about his study.
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