by Erica Monroe
Before she’d become the Duchess of Wycliffe, no one had wanted to talk to Felicity, regarding her as peculiar. The Upper Ten Thousand still thought her scientific pursuits were unfeminine, but they tolerated her because of her connection to the respected Harding family. As for Claire, the same people who slammed doors in her face when Whispers from Lady X dubbed her the Mad Daughter now clamored to have her at their soirees.
Jemma stopped by the window, rubbing her sore neck muscles. She envied how self-assured Claire and Felicity were, so content with their place in the world that they didn’t care how society regarded them. While being at Philip’s side had been easy for Jemma, due to their many years of friendship, she’d never felt comfortable as Lady Wolverston.
But with Gabriel’s arm around her in Mrs. Jennings’s pawn shop, she’d felt at peace.
She finally knew why Wolverston Hall had never felt like home to her. It was neither the creepy atmosphere nor the many horrific legends attached to the house.
It was because home was not a place, but a person: Gabriel.
She turned back from the window. Her friends had moved on from discussing Georgina’s dinner party to Felicity’s latest experiments. Jemma started to walk back to them.
Then she heard a scraping noise coming from the outside wall of the drawing room. She stopped, straining to listen. The sound repeated once more, but that was it.
“Did you hear that?”
Both ladies swiveled to face her, neither one knowing what she was referring to.
Jemma frowned. “My mind must be playing tricks on me.”
“It’s this house,” Claire supplied.
“I like it here,” Felicity said. “It reminds me of Tetbery Estate.”
“That’s not a good thing,” Claire responded teasingly. They’d all spent last Christmas in Cornwall, at the gloomy estate where Felicity had grown up.
If only she’d known then that it would be Philip’s last Christmas, she would have focused on making as many memories as possible with him.
She would have tried to save him.
Jemma smoothed a hand down her black morning dress, stifling a sigh. She knew she couldn’t change the past—but that didn’t make it any easier to accept Philip’s death. Only time could lessen the ache of grief.
Time, and justice.
CHAPTER TEN
The Rogue Runner was seen leaving Wolverston Hall in the wee hours of the morning! Obviously, since the lady of the house is supposed to be in mourning, we are beyond scandalized. What a disgrace that Lady Wolverston is following in the footsteps of her debauched sister…
-Whispers from Lady X, June 1816
Felicity and Claire left shortly after noon, promising to meet her later that evening for their weekly game of whist. As Jemma closed the door behind them, she regretted giving the servants a half day off. The townhouse was eerily quiet without anyone else in it. Her footsteps sounded distressingly loud as she strode down the empty hall, a reminder that she hadn’t been truly alone since before Philip died. The last two weeks had been a whirlwind of activity, from the funeral to moving into Wolverston Hall to investigating with Gabriel.
Now that she had time to actually stop and think, it hit her again how much her life had changed. She would never again hear Philip’s booming voice, or see his face twist up in a silly smile when he repeated one of his many favorite idioms. She’d never see him across the breakfast table, reading his newspaper.
Forever, the last memories she’d have of him would be sitting vigil with his disfigured corpse in the black crepe-draped room. Observing the pallbearers lower his coffin into the ground, as David stood over it, crying crocodile tears over the brother he’d murdered.
She balled her hands up into fists, clasping them at her sides to keep from tearing at her hair in frustration. The little bit of peace she’d gained from her friends’ visit quickly dissipated, leaving her again restless, longing for purpose. She’d never thought she needed company before, but now she hated being alone with her thoughts.
She needed something to do until Gabriel either came by, or delivered another letter. She went into the parlor, taking a seat and picking up her knitting needles. When they’d visited the rookeries, she’d been horrified by the threadbare garments the children sported. After talking to Felicity and Claire today, she’d decided to knit hats, gloves, and scarves for the children of the St. Giles in the Fields church, so that they wouldn’t have to spend another winter without warm clothing. Once she completed that project, she’d meet with the parish clergymen to determine how she could better help the community.
The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock and the clacking of her knitting needles. Try as she might though, she couldn’t focus—her leg jiggled unremittingly and her hands shook too much to complete the tight stitches needed. Finally, she thrust the incomplete hat away from her, giving up.
Silence descended upon the townhouse again, suffocating her. She stood up, going to the door, thinking she’d take a walk outside where at least the noise of the street would keep her company.
Then she heard it again. The scraping sound from before. Now it was closer—almost as if it was coming from the wall beside her. She looked around the room, knowing what she’d see.
There was no one else present.
Except something was different. Yesterday, she’d placed her box of clippings on the second shelf of the parlor bookcase, for the ornate gold trim matched the gold lettering on the leather-bound philosophy volumes beautifully.
Today, it was on the first shelf of the bookcase, beside the dowager countess’s old poetry collection.
She reached for it automatically, to put it back in its proper place. Maybe one of the maids had moved it when dusting. Or maybe she’d hadn’t put in on the second shelf as she’d thought.
Or maybe somebody really was in the house, rooting through her things.
Fear lanced through her. Her elbows pressed tight against her side, as her hands trembled. This was madness—no one was in the house, and the noises she’d heard were simply an old house settling.
“Jemma! Jemma, are you here?” A male voice burst through the all-consuming quiet, shocking her.
She screamed, the box dropping from her hands, so surprised was she. The clippings scattered across the floor, and she dropped down to her knees immediately, trying to gather them all up before he entered the room.
But she wasn’t quick enough. Not a minute later, David appeared in the doorway. Seeing her in the room, he advanced upon her, scooping up some of the papers.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said, the image of abashment. “No one was answering at the door so I let myself in.”
She should have had the locks changed sooner. Why hadn’t she? God, she’d been stupid to think he wouldn’t just come in.
But maybe, he’d only come to check on her. To pretend again he was the solicitous, perfect brother-in-law.
“Are the servants gone for the day? How nice of you, to give them the day off. I suppose they have been working hard lately, moving you in here. I told you that you could stay at Wolverston House, you know. There’s plenty of room—” His chatter stopped abruptly, as he stared with wide eyes at the clippings in his hands.
“I kept those for Philip,” she said, hoping he’d attribute the blasted shake in her voice to still getting over the shock of his appearance.
“It’s true, then.” David ignored her comment, his face transforming from concerned to enraged, so swiftly she wondered if her eyes were to be believed. He reared up, backing away from the mess on the ground.
Jemma stood up, not wanting to be at a disadvantage when he looked at her like that. He threw the scraps down upon the ground. He thrust his hand into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper and jabbing it at her.
She took it from David. It was the latest issue of Whispers from Lady X. She’d stopped reading the scandal sheet after they’d printed such revoltingly complimentary things about h
im.
She found what he’d taken issue to immediately. There, right at the top of the page, was this line: The Rogue Runner was seen leaving Wolverston Hall in the wee hours of the morning! She gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
“You couldn’t even wait a full fortnight before you started whoring yourself out. You’re just like your sister, aren’t you, Jemma?” David accused, disgust bleeding from his voice. “I guess blood will out, after all.”
The fear Jemma had felt when David first appeared evaporated at his harsh words. Before she could stop herself, her hand flew out, slapping him hard across his face, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing through the room.
David howled in pain. Her hand print was visible on his cheek, five close-together fingers. “You’re nothing but gutter-rubbish, just like she was.”
“You shut your bloody mouth,” Jemma snapped, ready to hit him again. “My sister was a good person, better than you can ever hope to be!”
David took a hasty step back from her, as if sensing her intentions. “I doubt that. She made it very clear amongst us bachelors what kind of woman she was, always sniffing around like a bitch in heat. Too bad Gramercy got to her first. But then, I’m sure she’s hurting for it in that convent now. Maybe I’ll find her—”
That was it. Jemma’s restraint snapped. She lunged toward him, throwing her weight against him, beating him with her fists. “You bastard. There is nothing decent left in you at all. You killed Philip, and now you go after my sister? I will make sure you pay!”
David caught her in his arms, his hands closing over her wrists in a vice-like grip. “You shouldn’t have said that, Jemma,” he hissed. “But I’m glad you did. Now I don’t have to worry if killing you is the wrong choice.”
“Gabriel’s coming,” she lied, desperately trying to break free from David’s grasp. “He’ll arrest you. You should leave now, while you still have a chance.”
David held her too tight, twisting her wrist hard, making her cry out in pain.
“Oh, Jemma, really.” David laughed, the mirthless noise chafing against her consciousness. “Do you think I haven’t been watching you? I know every secret of this house. There’s tunnels that pass through all the walls, chambers built upon chambers. Our ancestors were lecherous bastards, but those passages have served me well over the years.”
Revulsion hit her in a wave. Had he not been holding her so tightly, she would have doubled over. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“Settle down,” he ordered, rolling his eyes. “I never watched you and Philip. You were both far too dull for my interest.”
She never thought she’d be glad she’d had such a platonic-based marriage, but David’s admission centered her. Reminded her to fight harder, because she’d finally found love, and she didn’t intend on dying anytime soon.
She slammed her head back into David’s chest, hitting him square in the chin. He stumbled back, releasing her, realizing a second too late that she was gone, for she’d already spun out of his grasp. She’d made it several paces away, almost toward the door, when two clicks of a hammer stopped her in her tracks.
“I wouldn’t do that, Jemma.” David’s voice was lethally low. “There are so many more pleasant ways to die than being shot in the back. I’d like to make this as easy on you as possible, but it’s really all up to you.”
Slowly, she turned around. He held a pistol on her, aimed between her eyes. He took a step forward. At this distance, he’d be sure to hit her.
For a second, her heart stopped, as panic seized her. But no, she had to stay calm. She had to fight. Not just for herself, but for Gabriel. For her friends. For Philip, because without her, David wouldn’t pay for what he’d done.
“Why did you do it, David?” she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.
“Wolverston,” he corrected. “The title that should have been mine to begin with.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. If she could just get him talking, maybe he’d be distracted enough that she could get the gun from him.
“Do you know what it’s like, Jemma, to grow up in the shadow of perfect Philip?” He asked, ignoring her comment. “There wasn’t a single thing he couldn’t do well. Perfect marks in school. The perfect Corinthian. Hell, he was even perfect at cards. Everything came to him easily. How was I ever supposed to succeed, following after him? No matter what I did, to our parents, it was never as good as Philip.”
She could barely keep the disbelief from registering on her face. This was why he had killed Philip? Because his parents hadn’t loved him? That had never been the impression she got from the dowager countess. If anything, Jemma had thought the woman preferred David. She doted on her younger son, always overlooking his flaws.
But Jemma didn’t dare say that to him. She was terrified he’d shoot her, so she remained silent. He didn’t seem to notice. She got the feeling he was speaking more for his own benefit than hers. But the gun never faltered.
“I told myself it wasn’t worth it to keep trying. If everyone was determined to cast me in the role of the dissolute spare, then that’s what I’d be. Philip wanted to be responsible, then I’d let him be.” David’s face took on a dark cast, the whites of his eyes clearly visible.
He was mad, she thought. Bloody unhinged. But as he ranted, the gun slipped. Just the tiniest bit, but enough that she thought maybe, if he kept talking, he might loosen his grip more.
It was the only chance she had.
She didn’t trust herself to speak. The venom, the outrage she felt for him would probably come out. She simply nodded, as if she understood every word he said. As if he hadn’t slaughtered his own brother—her husband—in cold blood over nothing more than an enlarged sense of inadequacy.
“You’ve got to understand, Jemma.” He didn’t sound so self-assured anymore. “I begged Philip to help me, and he wouldn’t. Do you know what the Masons do to people who don’t pay? Philip had the money, and he didn’t want to give it to me. I had to kill him. It was the only way I would get the money.”
She nodded, her eyes never leaving the gun. It had slipped another two inches, now hanging loosely from his hand, but still aimed at her head.
“And now, I have to kill you. But at least, you’ll be with Philip. That’s what you wanted, right, Jemma?”
No, she screamed internally. She wanted to live. To have a future with Gabriel.
He took a step closer, then another. The gun slipped a little more.
She had one chance. When he came toward her again, she lunged for him, hitting him hard.
“I will never understand,” she hissed, as they both fell to the floor, scrambling on their hands and knees for the gun. “You killed him, David. Your brother. All he ever did was care about you, and you killed him.”
“Because I had to,” David insisted, slamming into her.
His heavier weight knocked her over, and she hit the ground hard, her breath knocked out of her. David took advantage of her indisposition, making a wild grab for the gun.
She kicked out, hoping to stop him, but her feet met air.
And then the gun went off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
This is the most shocking news we’ve ever had to report: David Forster, the new Earl of Wolverston, has been arrested by the Rogue Runner! The charge? Murder—and not just any murder, but the murder of the previous Earl of Wolverston! We can’t begin to fathom what would possess a man to kill his own brother, but we hope David Forster meets his maker soon at the end of a noose.
-Whispers from Lady X, June 1816
Gabriel hated being away from Jemma, but work had been incredibly busy. The transport for Arthur Garland had been hijacked, with a patrolman being stabbed by Garland’s henchmen. Garland had managed to escape—and it had taken three days of pounding the streets to find him. The Runners had caught him just as he was about to board a ship to America.
Once Garland was safely in Newgate, Gabriel wasted no time in going to Wolverston Hall. He
didn’t even stop at his own flat. Seeing Jemma was far more important than getting a good night’s rest. Since she wasn’t expecting him, he’d chance going in the front entrance. When the hack dropped him off outside her house, he damn near ran up the walk, so eager was he to see her.
He knocked on the door, waiting a minute before knocking again. No one came. He knocked a third time, and still no one answered. That didn’t make any sense.
As he was debating if he ought to pick the lock, another hack pulled up in front of the house, and a couple got out. He recognized Philip’s cousin Nicholas, the Duke of Wycliffe and his lofty redheaded wife. They waved at him as they came closer, stopping in front of the house next to him.
“Is Jemma not answering?” Nicholas asked.
“She should be home,” Felicity said. “But I think she did give the servants a half day, so that could be why she’s not answering. We are supposed to meet for cards tonight, but I forgot my anatomy book. I need it for my experiments.”
Gabriel didn’t ask what kind of experiments the duchess was conducting. If the scandal sheets were any indication, she dabbled in strange things he’d rather not know about, like alchemy.
“Should we go around the back?” he suggested. “She might be somewhere in the house where she can’t hear the front door.”
“That would make sense,” Nicholas agreed.
They’d started toward the back gate when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold with its familiarity.
A gunshot.
“Is that what I think it is?” the duke asked, but Gabriel was already rushing back around the house.
In a minute flat, he had the door lock picked and was inside. “Jemma!” he shouted, running through the hall, desperate to find her. When she didn’t respond, fear surged through him, propelling him on even faster.
The door to the parlor was open. Sprinting toward it, he drew his own weapon. He skidded to a stop in front of the door. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room, making his eyes water. His heart leapt in his chest.