The Wicked Governess

by Mary Lancaster

  Chapter Nineteen

  While awaiting the return of Killer Miller to claim the other half of his fee, Marcus Swayle enjoyed himself spreading the word about Caroline Grey’s disappearance. Not that he gave any impression of watching Haven Hall or its occupants. He preferred to ask people if they had seen Miss Grey, then exclaim with worry when they hadn’t. He would then enquire, with obvious suspicion, about Colonel Javan Benedict.

  Many people in Blackhaven did not seem to be aware of Benedict’s former rank. Clearly, the blackguard was trying hard not to be connected to the Colonel Benedict of the late scandal. Swayle was happy to enlighten them as to that connection and reiterate the colonel’s brutality to himself and to his wife.

  “We truly thought he was dead,” he said frequently. “And I have to say my poor, innocent Louisa had cause to wish he was. When we married, we believed we had a right to happiness. But he defeated both of us by returning. That I could not save her will haunt me forever… But I cannot bear that others might suffer as we did. It is my belief that poor Miss Grey is in terrible danger. And as for the child, whom I love as my own…”

  He was slightly miffed that more people didn’t react with sympathy and shock. The devil was in it that Lord and Lady Tamar and the vicar, damn them, seemed to have taken Benedict up. And the dullards in Blackhaven obviously took their cues from them. But they would see, they would all see, when Caroline Grey was found dead and Javan Benedict the clear culprit. With luck, this would turn even Richard against him before he hanged.

  By the third day after Miller’s departure, Swale began to get restive. The task must have been proving harder than they had assumed, but Swayle had faith in the villain to earn his fee in the end. He just hoped it wouldn’t take too much longer. He didn’t want to think the matter was getting out of his control, which was a suspicion when he spoke to Mrs. Winslow in the pump room, on the day of the assembly room ball.

  “I suppose you have not seen Miss Grey from the hall?” he began, as usual.

  “I believe they are all away,” Mrs. Winslow replied unexpectedly.

  “All?” he repeated, startled.

  “Indeed. Dear Lady Tamar tells me that there are only servants at the hall right now.”

  “Then…little Rosa is not there? Or Miss Benedict?”

  “None of them,” Mrs. Winslow averred.

  “My God,” Swayle said uneasily. “Has he fled?”

  Mrs. Winslow laughed. “What an odd word! I believe the servants expect them all back soon.”

  “I pray you may be right,” Swayle said sorrowfully and took his leave.

  This was annoying. He had hoped to have the whole matter done and dusted by this time, so that he could soak up all the town’s horror and disgust at Benedict during the assembly ball. He’d planned to bask in the glow of people’s appreciation of his knowledge and perspicacity. And perhaps even, in the moment of his fame, encounter an heiress. Or a wealthy widow. He was not fussy.

  Still, the subscription ball was a great place to intensify the rumors, and if news of the death could only get there tonight, why that would be even better. But he scarcely allowed himself to hope for such a splendid outcome.

  Instead, he made the most of what he did have and arrived at the assembly rooms impeccably dressed as always. And although he took his walking cane, he did not lean on it as heavily. Which meant he could dance with the charming and the wealthy women he had already picked out.

  He was just returning a very young lady to her guardians when a stir at the ballroom door attracted his attention. And not just his. The way everyone turned and stared at Javan Benedict spoke volumes for the success of Swayle’s whispering campaign. Unfortunately, after one breathless moment of triumph, Swayle recognized his female companion as Miss Grey.

  Oh, she wore a rather beautiful new gown of rose silk, and someone had given her pearls to wind around her throat, but it was undoubtedly Caroline Grey.

  “Colonel and Mrs. Benedict,” the major-domo announced, and Swayle had to close his teeth on his furious oath. Still smiling, he made civil conversation with his partner’s family and moved about the ballroom, desperate to find out what this meant for his plans. But damn it, he couldn’t even say she had been forced into it, for happiness shone from her like a beacon.

  Gone was the severe frump of a governess. In her place, had come a beautiful, fashionable, and confident young matron, more than fit to be shown off on any man’s arm. Any man except Benedict, that is. As the couple moved into the room, Lady Tamar went forward to embrace her family’s old governess. From all over the room came well-wishers and congratulatory back-slappers.

  Rage began to surge within Swayle, for it was as if all his hard work, all his rumor mongering and all the seeds of suspicion he’d sown, had been for nothing. Not only had Javan so obviously not killed her, he’d married her. No one seemed to care either that she’d left engaged to a different Benedict, and that included Richard himself, who sauntered in behind the couple, as proud as if he’d made the match himself. Which he might have, Swayle supposed. Only, where the devil was Miller? What on earth had he been doing for the last five days?

  “What a distinguished couple they make,” said a female voice fondly beside him. Mrs. Grant, who gave herself such airs as though she were some great lady instead of a country vicar’s wife. “It seems your fears were quite unfounded, Mr. Swayle.”

  “I’m glad if that is so,” he said at once. “But I’ll be happier when I discover what has happened to my little Rosa.”

  “Oh, she’s very well and very excited to have a new mother. And of course, she got to meet some new family in Scotland.”

  “Family in Scotland?” Swayle repeated, trying not to stare at her. She was so beautiful in her dark, languid way, that in any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed her company. Right now, he had the horrid feeling she was torturing him.

  “Of course. They all went north to meet Caroline’s—Mrs. Benedict’s—family. And married while they were there. Isn’t it delightful?”

  “Charming,” Swayle said, sickened. “I shall be happiest if he treats her better than he did my Louisa.”

  Mrs. Grant smiled directly into his eyes. “Well, he will no longer be fighting abroad, so there will certainly be no opportunity for some scoundrel to move into his house, take his wife, and abuse his daughter.” And without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Stunned by this rumor-reversal, it took him a moment to leap after her and actually seize her arm. “Mrs. Grant, I cannot allow you to repeat such thorough calumny. If this is what Benedict is saying…”

  “Not Benedict,” said Benedict himself, materializing at his side. “Rosa.”

  The blood sang in his ears. Benedict had always affected him this way, even before he’d kicked him literally out of his house. There was something harsh and inflexible about him, something that simply made Swayle feel small and less of a man. But right now, there was more at stake than Swayle’s manliness. After all this time, Rosa had accused him.

  In many ways, it would have been a blessed relief to faint and give himself time to think, to find a way out of this. But Benedict’s hard, violent eyes seemed to hold him upright. He couldn’t even pretend. Instead, he blurted, “Rosa has spoken?”

  Benedict smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. “We can’t stop the flow of words from her now.”

  Swayle felt sick to his stomach. He could deny whatever the child said, but he could not denounce her, make out she was lying from hatred since he’d just spent weeks convincing everyone he and Rosa loved each other like father and daughter.

  “You made her,” he managed to choke out.

  “Made her what, Swayle?” Benedict pressed. “And I really think you should remove your hand from Mrs. Grant’s arm, for she does not care for it. And if Grant does not knock you down, I will.”

  “More violence, sir?” Swayle snapped, clutching at straws. However, he released Mrs. Grant, whom he’d forgotten
in the sudden confrontation with Benedict. He needed to get away from here and either regroup or move on. Perhaps he should go back to London…

  With what dignity he could muster he stalked past Benedict, ignoring the vicar and Richard Benedict who were approaching rapidly. He swiped up his cane from the corner he’d left it in and leaned on it a little more than before as he made his way out of the ballroom to the blessed coolness of the foyer.

  Here he could at least draw breath and think. He could not ignominiously turn tail and run, for that would surely confirm his guilt. He would refresh himself in the gentlemen’s cloakroom and pray for inspiration.

  Forcing himself to smile and bow to the few late arrivals in the foyer, he walked past them and abruptly stopped, staring at the individual leaning beside the doorman as though having a pleasant chat.

  “Miller!” he blurted.

  Miller grinned and tipped his disreputable hat. “Mr. Swayle.”

  What the doorman was thinking of, allowing such an individual into these hallowed halls on the night of a gentry ball, was beyond Swayle. Presumably Miller had, finally, come to report his abject failure. Too late, for the evidence was flaunting herself inside.

  “Get out,” Swayle snarled. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  “This the man?” the doorman said. And Swayle, peering closer, saw that it was a different doorman from the last time he’d been here.

  “Aye, that’s him,” said Miller, and the doorman straightened so suddenly that Swayle knew without doubt that he’d made a deadly mistake.

  “Name’s Bolton,” the “doorman” said conversationally. “I’m from Bow Street, and you, Mr. Swayle, are under arrest.”

  There was nothing else for it. Swayle leapt back and lashed upward with his cane.

  “Watch out,” came Benedict’s warning cry from behind. “It’s a sword-stick!”

  He remembered, damn him, he remembered everything. But it was too late. Swayle had already drawn the sword free and thrust hard, not at the runner but at Miller.

  *

  Caroline had observed the moment Swayle began to make his way out of the ballroom. Although naturally outraged by his part in trying to kill her—for no better reason than to make Javan suffer—it was his cruelty to Rosa that made her really want to witness his downfall.

  She excused herself from the group of people Serena had introduced her to and followed him. She wasn’t surprised to meet her husband in the doorway. She even took his arm and felt the hint of tension in him. For he had planned this with military precision, including the unsettling of Swayle by their presence and by the accusations that had come from Kate Grant. They had been supposed to come from her husband the vicar, but it seemed Kate had got there first. Either way, the encounter had its desired effect. Swayle had left the ballroom, where the Bow Street Runner and Killer Miller awaited him.

  There were only a few people in the foyer, and voices carried. Caroline heard Miller’s identification quite clearly, and then the runner’s somewhat arrogant introduction.

  “Damn it,” Javan muttered, detaching his arm from her hold. “Bolton’s supposed to secure him before her reveals–”

  He was already running across the entrance hall and shouting his warning when Swayle jumped out of easy reach and dragged the sword from his cane. His intention was clear—silence the man whom he’d paid to commit murder. And Miller was both bound and hemmed in by the door and the wall.

  Terrified for Javan, Caroline stumbled after him. Two ladies emerging from the cloakroom screamed. A gentleman shouted a furious demand that the fight be taken outside.

  Then Javan slammed into Swayle’s back, his arm streaking around his enemy’s throat and locking hard as he dragged him back. The sword missed Miller’s heart by a fraction of an inch.

  Swayle jerked, trying to shake him off, to make use of the weapon in his right hand. But the sword could not reach Javan, and Swayle could not dislodge him with his constricted elbows or his feet. Javan seized his right wrist in a grip so hard that Swayle cried out in his effort to hold on to his weapon.

  “You, stay where you are,” the runner instructed Miller and advanced menacingly upon Swayle.

  The sword clattered to the floor, and Bolton, the runner, scooped it up. Javan’s arm squeezed tighter until Swayle made a horrible choking noise. Caroline, her heart in her mouth, was suddenly terrified that Javan would kill him. She ran the last few paces, seizing his free arm.

  “Javan, don’t,” she pleaded.

  “Give him up to me now, sir,” the runner said authoritatively.

  Javan gave a last squeeze and almost hurled Swayle into Bolton’s grip. “Of course.”

  Only then, with Swayle safe and choking in his hold, did the runner turn to Miller. “You still here?”

  Miller shrugged. “I could have legged it while you wrestled with him. Didn’t seem right when the colonel there saved my life. I take it kindly, sir.”

  “Don’t,” Javan said. “I need you to send this dog to prison, if not to the hangman.”

  “Happy to oblige.”

  “We got it written down and witnessed,” the runner said carelessly. “Magistrate don’t care if he’s there or not.”

  “Then I’d no need to hurry,” Javan said flippantly.

  “Very glad you did,” Miller admitted, jerking his head at the runner, “for he was no help, blabbing before he was meant to. Just cause a man looks like a cowardly weasel don’t mean he’ll come quietly.”

  Bolton had the grace to look sheepish, muttering that no harm had been done.

  “No,” Javan agreed, his fist clenching once more. “It gave me the chance to hurt him, to feel the breath leaving his body.”

  “I never laid a finger on Rosa,” Swayle gasped. “She’s lying if she says I did.”

  Sparks flew from Javan’s eyes. Caroline couldn’t prevent him stepping closer. “No, you didn’t need to,” he uttered with searing contempt. “You just threatened her, frightened her into never revealing your pathetic plan to kill me when I came home. She overheard you and Louisa discussing it, and you scared her, a child of eight, who didn’t even understand most of what you’d planned, with vile threats I will not repeat here. You told her she’d never see either of her parents again if she ever opened her mouth. Children can be literal. She never did open her mouth. If she never said anything, she’d never say the thing you’d kill us for. Louisa dying only reinforced your threats in her mind.”

  Javan’s fingers curled reassuringly around Caroline’s pleading hand. He took a breath and even smiled, though it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “But here’s the thing, Swayle. She beat you without speaking. She wrote it all down.”

  She had. On their return to Blackhaven this afternoon, they’d called first on Dr. Lampton to get him to look at Caroline’ wound. Afterward, he’d shown them his notebook where Rosa had written her answers to his questions on their last meeting. And where she’d drawn a picture of what had frightened her.

  “I didn’t think anything of it at first,” Lampton had told them. “I thought it was just her doodling, a way of avoiding what I’d asked her to think about. For the answers she wrote down were evasive and uninformative in the extreme. But it was a good drawing for a child of her age, and I began to think I’d actually seen this fellow. Have I? Have you?”

  And Rosa had come and taken the book from them, and without urging, had sat at Dr. Lampton’s desk and written down a long, terrible stream of words. By the end, tears were dropping onto the paper, blotting the ink, and she’d clung to her father, trembling and weeping silently into his coat.

  If Caroline had not already loved him to distraction, she would have fallen for him just for the way he comforted Rosa, a mixture of gentle explanations and praise and a secure, constant embrace. Caroline’s throat constricted all over again at the memory, at the thought of the child’s pain. And Javan’s fury, so tightly controlled that his hand trembled as soon as it stopped stroking Rosa’s hair.

  Bolton
opened the door to haul his prisoner out.

  “And him?” Swayle asked, as though he couldn’t help it. “How did you get a runner here so fast?”

  “Actually, it took some time,” Javan said. “I wrote to Bow Street as soon as I saw you at Braithwaite Castle. It wasn’t my first discussion with the runners about you, but a year ago I had no proof. This time, because they thought you’d followed me, they were more interested.” He swung away, dragging Caroline’s hand through his arm. “For Rosa and for Caroline, I hope they hang you. Take him away, Bolton, before I kill him myself.”

  Inevitably, perhaps, it was Serena who lightened the moment. At the head of the throng that had spilled out of the ballroom to see the “fight”, she gave a pleased little clap at Javan’s parting line. And the applause was taken up by several people and then by everyone in the vicinity.

  Javan looked startled, then amused in a slightly embarrassed way. He bowed dramatically before the company, like a stage actor, which delighted them further. Then he led Caroline through the throng and back into the ballroom.

  “You’d better dance with me now to let the noise die down,” he muttered.

  “It won’t die down if you dance with your own wife,” she warned humorously. “You’ll be shunned.”

  “Oh well,” he said, taking her into his arms, for it was a waltz which had struck up. He held her carefully, allowing her injured arm to lie across her breast. “They might as well know that the wicked governess who set her cap at an earl and a baronet before me, has finally caught her lesser man.”

  “There is nothing lesser about you, Javan,” she said warmly. “There never was.”

  “And were you never a wicked governess?” he teased.

  “No,” she said with dignity. She let her thumb caress his hand. “Or at least, only in my thoughts.”