Their temporary home, until James found a property that was deemed suitable, was a fine, old cottage on the outskirts of St Jarvis. It was owned by the Duke of Everleigh, who had insisted that James lease it until he found a more permanent residence.
The butter-brick cottage was two stories, with a thatched roof and steep, arched gables. It was set back, away from the road, in a large garden, that even in the diminishing light, Polly could see was filled with flowers. It was like something from a story-book, though she could not fully appreciate its charms, due to the rising panic that she felt.
"What do you think?" James asked, as he lit a candle in the small entrance hall.
"I couldn't say," Polly gave a nervous laugh, "For I've only seen this room. Come, let's explore."
Despite the weary tiredness that filled her bones, Polly set forth to explore the cottage, feigning an interest in everything; from the cupboard under the staircase, to the low beams of the kitchen roof.
"I think they're oak," Polly called down to James, as she rapped against one of the beams with her knuckles.
"I think you've had too much champagne," James responded, his expression perplexed.
She was standing on one of the kitchen chairs, ostensibly so that she could better examine the beams, and she knew that she must look ridiculous. The hurt and confusion written across her new husband's face tore a little at her heart, and Polly gave a sigh.
There was no point in skirting around the problem at hand, she thought, she must face it head on. Gingerly she stepped down from the chair onto the flagstone floor and once she was on safe ground, she looked her husband in the eye.
"I suppose it's time we went to bed," she said, lifting her chin proudly. "I know what you're expecting James Black and I know you've every right to take it, but I expect that you'll show some restraint and not hurt me too much."
"I never knew you were such a romantic," James snorted, before chuckling deeply. His laughter died away as he realised that Polly was not joking and that her fears were genuine. "What's going on Poll? What has you in such a state?"
"Only the prospect of grievous bodily injury," Polly whispered mulishly, a little aggrieved that he was, presumably, so caught up with the thoughts of the pleasure he could expect that he could not see how frightened she was. His face was still wreathed in confusion, so with a sigh, Polly sat down at the kitchen table and explained to him that Mrs Tarpy had informed her of what to expect from the marriage bed.
"And then, she said that of all men, sailors are the worst," Polly finished, casting James an aggrieved look for having chosen a seafaring career. "So, I am to expect that you have needs far more disparate than the average husband."
"All I need is you."
Polly looked up from her hands, which she had tangled in her lap. As her eyes met James', she saw only love and kindness, and she wondered if perhaps Mrs Tarpy had been mistaken.
"You won't hurt me?" she whispered as a flush stained her cheeks. Even though she was frightened, his handsome, good looks still held the power to leave her feeling flustered.
"I won't," James said solemnly and to Polly, it was almost as magical as hearing him say "I do".
"I'm sorry for being so skittish," Polly said with a watery laugh. "It's just I know nothing of these things and you have so much more experience..."
"Actually," it was James' turn to blush, "I have never..."
Polly sat up straight in her chair, incredulous at this piece of information. Captain James Black, dashing war hero had never made love to a woman?
"You're teasing me," Polly said, though at the same time she wondered why he would tease her about such a thing.
"On my honour," James held a hand over his heart. "I have not. I have been waiting for you, Polly Black--I betrayed you once many years ago, but have been true to you ever since."
Of all the revelations of the day, this was the one that left Polly completely speechless. How had she ever doubted James, doubted that he loved her, or that he would be loyal? The man before her was her soul mate, her truest friend and, now, her husband.
"You didn't tell me," she whispered, unchecked tears of happiness rolling down her cheeks.
"Well, it's not a thing a man usually shares with people," James said bashfully, "Though I am glad that I have waited for you Poll. There were many times, over the years, that I had almost given up on finding you, but now that I have, I am so glad that I waited."
"So am I."
Her words broke through her fear, urging her to stand and go to her husband. Shyly, on tiptoes, she stretched up to place a tender kiss upon his lips. As their lips met, all her reservations fell away, so that when he deepened the kiss, she did not balk, but rather met his every move eagerly.
It was heaven, she thought through a haze of desire, to be held so lovingly in James' arms. Her husband pressed his body against hers and she marvelled at his strength, his sheer masculinity.
"I think we'd best take this upstairs," James said breathlessly, as, with an obvious effort, he pulled away from her. "If you're ready?"
"I'm ready," Polly smiled, her skin tingling with warmth. "I feel Mrs Tarpy may have been mistaken in her surmising of what to expect from the marital bed."
"We'll have to go upstairs to test your theory," James replied with a wolfish grin. Despite her protests, her husband lifted her up into his arms and carried her up the narrow staircase to the master bedroom.
With tender fingers he helped her to undress, his hands shaking slightly as he undid the laces of her stays. As the last of her clothing fell away with a sigh to the floor, Polly attempted to cover herself with her arms, bashful at being so exposed.
"I want to see you," James gently chided lifting her arms away and traversing her body, most impudently, with desire filled eyes. What he saw seemed to please him, for he carried her to the bed and soon Polly was writhing with pleasure beneath him, as he kissed her fiercely.
Mrs Tarpy had been so wrong, Polly thought afterwards, as she lay dazed, her limbs entwined with her husband's. Making love had not been painful, it had been a joyful union of two souls, made all the sweeter by the words of love that James had whispered whilst he took her. She glanced at her husband, whose arm was thrown possessively over her, and she thought that she had never loved anyone as much.
James' eyelid opened a crack, as though he had sensed he was being watched.
"Well," he murmured, drawing her body close to his. "How did you survive my grievous attack on your person?"
"Quite well," Polly giggled, for his breath was tickling the back of her neck. "No injuries to report, Captain."
"Good," James whispered, kissing her neck softly, his hands stroking her hair. "You shall have to tell Mrs Tarpy that she was quite mistaken, lest she take it upon herself to offer any other new brides advice."
"I'll tell her when I return the fire-poker," Polly laughed, for James had sat up to look at her in question.
"Do I want to know?" he asked.
"No," Polly shook her head, reaching out to pull him back toward her. "The only thing you need to know, is that I'd rather like you to do that again--just so I can be certain when I report back to Mrs Tarpy."
"We might have to try it a few times," James said seriously, "I wouldn't want you to be spreading rumours, unless we are definitely, completely and totally certain that love-making poses no threat to one's health."
And so they did, twice more before the morning, just to be sure.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The town house in Mayfair was still as large and imposing as it had seemed to James all those years ago; the windows of the stuccoed mansion, seemed to glare down at him as he climbed the steps to the front door.
"Nervous?"
James glanced to his left, where the Duke of Everleigh, stood wearing a dark expression, with Lord Keyford just behind him.
"No," James shook his head, "I've no reason to feel nervous of entering my own house."
He reached out and, with a gloved ha
nd, banged the large, brass knocker loudly.
It took a few minutes for someone to come and answer the door. As it creaked open, James noted that it was the same butler who had served the family whilst he had stayed with them, though the elderly man showed no sign of recognition.
"I am afraid that no one is at home," the butler said apologetically as he opened the door wide. "Though if you would like to leave your card, I shall pass it on to the Earl."
"That won't be necessary," Ruan replied congenially, as he stepped past the butler, into the entrance hall. "We'll wait."
James felt a stab of pity for the butler, who seemed startled by Ruan's declaration; no doubt the old man had been warned not to accept callers.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," the butler replied, glancing nervously between Everleigh and James before sending a beseeching glance to Lord Keyford. Both James and Everleigh dwarfed the diminutive man by several inches, and he seemed frightened, despite the fact that neither was behaving in a threatening manner. "The Earl is not at home."
"Actually," Everleigh looked pointedly at James, "I think you'll find that he is."
Without waiting for the butler to reply, the Duke of Everleigh set forth, with the assured confidence that only a man of his title could possess, calling out for Livingstone.
James' Uncle was quick to show himself, emerging from his library and grumbling about the racket. He had obviously thought that he would meet one of the servants, for when he spotted James, flanked by a Duke and a Viscount, Arthur stopped dead in his tracks.
"Goodness," Livingstone said as he took in the sight of James, "We thought you were dead."
"Hoped, more like," James replied coolly.
His nerves, such as they had been, had disappeared at the sight of his devious uncle. The memory of how Arthur Livingstone had calmly explained to the Dowager Countess how he intended his nephew to die, sparked a fire of anger in James' stomach. The man who stood before him had taken everything from James, before he was even born, and now James intended to take it back.
"What a peculiar thing to say," Arthur Livingstone said, mopping his bald pate with a handkerchief, as he glanced, with bulging eyes between the three men. "Why on earth would I hope that you were dead?"
"Because I am the Earl of Ludlow," James responded smoothly.
He had expected a bigger reaction from his Uncle; heated denials, shouting, or even violence, but his Uncle merely stared at him coldly.
"That's preposterous," Livingstone said, looking at the Duke and Lord Keyford as he spoke. "What nonsense has this young man been filling you both with? His mother was no more than a lightskirt, who ran away with my brother thirty years ago. She was happy enough to take a bag of gold, to be rid of poor Horace, but it seems her son has ideas above his station."
James was upon his uncle before he had a chance to even think of what he was doing. His fist connected with Livingstone's smug face and would have connected again, had the Duke not pulled him back.
"Hold back, Ludlow," Everleigh urged, "He's not worth soiling your hands on."
James had not noticed that the Duke had referred to him by his title, until Arthur Livingstone gave a howl of amused laughter.
"You think that by calling him Ludlow, that will prove anything?" Arthur questioned, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. His lip was bleeding and the blood soon reappeared, causing Arthur to curse.
"No," Everleigh shook his head. "I will concede that me referring to James by his rightful title proves nothing, but luckily there is proof absolute, written in the marriage registry of the parish of St Jarvis."
"You lie," Livingstone sneered, but James sensed a little fear behind his words.
"No, it's you who is the liar, Uncle," James replied, stifling a grin, "And an arsonist to boot. Perhaps you thought you had destroyed all evidence of my parent's marriage, when you burned down the vestry? But what you didn't know was that, thanks to an absent-minded vicar, the current register was not inside when you set it alight."
"In Latin, what we have is called Res ipsa loquitur," Lord Keyford interjected, his low, gravelly voice adding a weight of sobriety to the proceedings. "Though, I am still rather curious as to why you felt the need to kill poor Horace?"
"What?"
It was as though Keyford had slapped Livingstone across the face. The man visibly reeled in shock, his skin taking on a ghost like pallor that was almost worrying. Livingstone took a few steps backward, leaning his ample frame against the wall and clutching at his chest.
James waited, wondering what his Uncle would have to say to the accusation, though Livingstone did not have a chance to reply before another figure appeared in the hallway.
Edward, James' half brother, was a shadow of the teenage boy James had last seen. His face was gaunt, his eyes almost dead in his skull and he was so thin, it was almost painful to look at him. Despite his sickly appearance, however, it was easy to discern that he was related to Arthur Livingstone. Both men were bald, bar a ring of blonde hair that circled their heads like a monk's tonsure, and both men had the same watery eyes above near identical pinched faces. The resemblance was so strong, that at once, the reason for all of Arthur's misdeeds became clear.
"You wanted your son to inherit the title," James whispered, as realisation dawned on him, "That's why you did it."
"I don't know what you're referring to," Livingstone bristled, casting a panicked glance at Edward who rolled his eyes.
"Give it up," Edward said, a sardonic smile stretching the papery thin skin of his face. "You've ruined enough lives with your treachery, dear Uncle."
James had not expected that his brother would take his side, but as Edward glared at Livingstone, he recognised the hatred in the young man's stare.
"You knew?" James asked.
"I only discovered my parent's dirty secret the night that you disappeared," Edward replied with a disinterested shrug. "I found them canoodling in the drawing room, discussing how they hoped that you would be killed off in France. Much easier to have someone else murder him, than to have to get your hands dirty again, eh father?"
"So, he did kill Horace," Keyford exclaimed, advancing angrily on Arthur Livingstone, who had shrank to half his size as he cowered against the wall. The Duke held out an arm to keep Keyford from progressing any further; they needed him to confess and he would not be able to if he was being pummelled by Keyford.
"Smashed his head in with a brick," Edward helpfully supplied, his insolent gaze resting on his father, "After Ludlow caught him and Mama in flagrante in the library. Poor Horace, he didn't deserve that."
"Poor Horace?" Arthur Livingstone sprang back to life at the mention of his dead brother's name. "Do you think Horace was a good man? He would have squandered the entire estate away and he near ruined the family name by marrying that common trollop. For all his proclamations that he was in love, all it took to persuade him to leave was a vague whisper that the marriage was invalid because the banns hadn't been published and a word or two about the former lovers that Flora Black had taken."
"The banns were published," Everleigh spoke up, surprising James who had not thought of the banns and canon law. "I checked with Mr Wilpole; the vicar who preceded him was meticulous about those sorts of things and kept most accurate records. I think you'll find that, despite your best efforts, the paperwork for the marriage is quite in order."
"Pah," Livingstone spat on the ground with anger. "Be that as it may, once Horace thought there was an escape route, he quickly took it, and after that it was easy to persuade him to marry Audra, despite her lack of a dowry."
"And she was already carrying your child," Everleigh finished, a look of disgust on his face. "So all this, all this hurt and murder was so that your child would inherit?"
"I would not cast any child of mine into the role of poor cousin to Horace's offspring," Arthur spat angrily. "I would not consign them to a life of poor prospects and scraping and bowing to bloody Horace, of all people. Judge me if you w
ill, but I would do it again in a heartbeat."
"I have no intention of judging you," James said, almost unable to look at his Uncle, he was so filled with revulsion. "Though this man might; John did you hear all that?"
John Fielding, the magistrate in charge of the Bow Street Runners Magistrate's office, stepped forward from the shadows. He had followed behind James, Everleigh and Keyford, as the three men knew that they would find it difficult to get Livingstone to confess with a Lord Justice present.
"I'm sorry to say that I heard every word of that awful tale," Fielding said, his face grave. The magistrate cast a look of disgust at Livingstone, who had begun to sob in the corner. "It's Newgate for you, if you're lucky, or the end of a rope, if you're not."
"I wouldn't like to see him hang," James interjected softly, "It's rather an easy way out. Let him rot in Newgate, if at all possible."
"Duly noted," Fielding replied, "Let me get my men and we'll remove this piece of filth from your home...my Lord."
Keyford and Everleigh stood guard over Livingstone, until Fielding returned with four of his Runners. James' uncle did not put up a fight as he was taken away; his face was ashen and he still clutched at his chest. James rather thought that his uncle might not survive the night, though he felt little sympathy for the man.
"That went rather smoothly," Keyford remarked, as the door closed behind Fielding and his men. "Though I fear having you declared as the rightful Earl of Ludlow may take some time. Your father's estate will have to go to Chancery, it may take many years, if anyone contests it."
"I shan't contest James' right to the title," Edward said quietly. The young man leaned against the wall for support and he looked as though a gust of wind might knock him over. James remembered the rumours that Edward was addicted to opium and he certainly had the look of a man with many troubles.
"You won't?" James asked in confusion. To give up a title and all the wealth and power that went with it, without so much as a mild objection, was insanity. Even if Edward contested the estate and lost, he might still be awarded some compensation by the courts of Chancery.
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