‘Me?’ Marianne fastened a strand of pearls about her neck and checked her appearance in the dressing table mirror. ‘People have had all Season to look at me.’ She watched Eliza in the mirror; Eaton’s wife had something on her mind.
‘I think you underestimate the ton’s appetite for speculation.’ Eliza met her gaze in the reflection. ‘Vennor has danced with you for two years, has only shown up whenever you’re present, and now he’s back at the opera house with you by his side, in his box. The gossips will have you engaged by morning.’
Marianne’s hand stalled on the pearls at her throat. Was that what was behind Vennor’s sudden desire to return to the opera house? Did he want to push towards a proposal? He’d intimated rather plainly on her birthday that his thoughts in that regard had changed. Despite his acceptance of her answer, her answer had disappointed him. ‘I think it’s rather sudden to be discussing marriage,’ Marianne offered vaguely, not sure what Eliza was hinting at.
‘Sudden? You’ve been friends for years.’ Eliza seemed to have arrived ready for a little debate. That put Marianne on alert. ‘Would it be so bad to marry him? A girl could do worse than to wed her best friend.’ Eliza smiled benignly, but the seed had been planted. Marianne could extend that—a girl could do worse than to wed her lover, to wed a man who saw her as she was, a man who embraced her ambitions, who included her in his own life’s purposes, who entrusted her with his secrets, a man who would be true all the days of his life.
Eliza’s gaze did not waver and Marianne saw a glimpse of the renowned tenacity that had won Eliza a reputation in the boardrooms of men. She did not back down. ‘I see I’ve struck a chord with you. You and I have not had a chance to talk much, but I was once like you, resistant to giving a man control over my life. After my first marriage, and watching my mother’s marriages, I felt that control and freedom were the most important things I could have, Marianne. I did everything I could to protect that freedom. I made money, I hoarded money, I guarded my mines so that no one could ever take away that freedom. In doing so, I nearly missed something that was much more valuable: the love of a good man. Eaton was not intimidated by me or my missions. I don’t pretend to know what you think you might have to give up, but I cannot imagine Vennor asking you to do that.’
No, he wouldn’t ask it of her. Hadn’t he promised her she could set new trends? She could keep writing. She would work with him side by side with his new school venture, publishing stories about his efforts, about their efforts. Doubt came to Marianne for the first time. Had she been wrong to put off Vennor’s suit, hypothetical as it was? Why did she continue to resist? At the moment it was hard to remember. ‘There are things I want to do that would be scandalous. I cannot bring shame to him and yet those things are important to me; they’re like breathing to me. I will not give them up.’
Eliza nodded, letting the vagueness of ‘those things’ go unchallenged. ‘I run a mining corporation. I am the daughter of a commoner, a mere businessman. I also once worried about bringing scandal to Eaton. Once I figured out that I loved him, I tried to convince myself I couldn’t have him. I was wrong. Scandal is nothing in the face of love. But to give up love for the sake of saving face? That would be by far the greater tragedy.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Marianne turned from the mirror, facing Eliza directly.
Eliza crossed the room and took her hands. ‘Vennor loves you and you love him. I can see it on your faces when you look at each other, when you look for each other in a crowded room.’ Eliza paused. ‘My dear girl, I almost left it until it was too late to tell Eaton I loved him. He nearly died for me. I would not want you to make that same mistake. When you love someone you should tell them. Right away. The people who find love in this world are the lucky ones.’
Marianne nodded, her throat thick with emotion. She’d spent the last month convincing Vennor to live and she’d not done nearly enough of that herself. Living meant taking risks, testing assumptions. And she hadn’t, not where Vennor was concerned. She’d clung doggedly to her old standard, her old way of thinking about marriage even when Vennor had shown her a new way to think of it; marriage to him could be whatever she made it. She squeezed Eliza’s hands. ‘Thank you for being bold enough to tell me, to help me see what’s right in front of me.’
She loved Vennor. Her heart had known it long before this. She needn’t be afraid of it. She needed to embrace it. She needed to tell him and she would, tonight, after the opera and his triumphant return.
* * *
The return of the Duke made for a noisy lobby at the opera house. There was a crush of people, everyone jostling for a glimpse of the Duke of Newlyn. Vennor gave them a show, with Marianne on his arm, dressed gorgeously in her trademark white silk, her striking red hair done up in careful ringlets held in place by his birthday gift. His considerable entourage followed him up the opera house staircase: the Earl of Tintagel, Viscount Trevethow and the Marquess of Lynford, with their elegantly gowned wives. They were followed by their fathers, the Duke of Boscastle, the Duke of Hayle, the Duke of Bute and their Duchesses. He needed their strength. It had taken all of his strength to face the opera house tonight, to come to a building that had become a monument to his own guilt, his own sense of failure.
Marianne squeezed his arm. ‘You’re here now and your father would be proud of you. Your mother, too.’ She fairly glowed tonight, as if some secret candle had been lit inside her. He felt like the luckiest man in London to have her beside him. But looking at the faces of his friends, he knew they’d argue the point, thinking themselves worthy candidates of the moniker, too.
They made a happy party in the box. Champagne corks were popped and the curtain closed behind them, cutting off onlookers from peering in from the saloon. It was only partial privacy, Vennor knew. The rest of the audience looked on from their own boxes and through opera glasses from the floor. They could not escape scrutiny entirely nor did he want to. Being noticed was part of the plan. Was Hayes here? Was he even now watching their box?
The lights dimmed, warning everyone the performance was about to begin. He helped Marianne to her seat and sat beside her, her hand firmly in his. Let them look, let them all look, he thought. Marianne is mine. A bubble of joy welled up in him at the fierceness of the thought. She was his. Tonight, he was one step closer to claiming her in truth, one step closer to facing his own demons so that he could offer her a whole man, a man who knew himself, a man with purpose, the man his father had wanted him to be. Only then could he give her the most precious words of all, I love you, because he could love himself.
The lights went down. Marianne leaned against him and whispered in his ear, ‘I have something to tell you. Tonight, afterwards.’
‘Good,’ he whispered back, ‘then I have something to look forward to.’
* * *
If they hadn’t been surrounded by friends and family, Vennor would have been tempted to steal her away and tease her secret out of her right then and there, but there was no question of that tonight. Perhaps another time. He spent the first act dreaming of ways to seduce Marianne at the opera. He spent the intermission regretting his choice to stay. It was as bad as he’d expected it to be, their box flooded with well-wishers who wanted to let him know how nice it was to see him, and oh, did he know they had a daughter, a niece, a cousin?
‘It reminds me of the funeral,’ Vennor remarked drily to Eaton as they ushered the last of the guests out of the box. ‘Everyone politely pushing their female relations at me.’
Eaton slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh. ‘Another good reason to put all of them out of their misery and yours, too.’
* * *
The joviality faded during the second act. Vennor’s own performance for the evening was entering a new stage as well. He’d made his presence known; he’d announced to the ton that he was officially back—and to Marianne as well. He hoped she understood that while tonight fu
lfilled many functions, one of them was for her. He hoped she knew that he’d done this for her, because of her. She’d brought him back. But now it was time to focus on what came afterwards, to be on alert for Hayes—or more precisely, Hayes’s minions. He did not expect trouble from Hayes directly.
* * *
The final curtain came down, the audience applauded and began the process of migrating to the street. Vennor exchanged a look with his friends. It was time to be on their guard. If anything did happen, they had strict instructions to get Marianne away and see to the safety of the others. Vennor tucked Marianne’s hand through his arm, keeping her close as they journeyed down the crowded stairs. They’d nearly made it to the doors when he realised the crush of people had separated them from the rest of their party. He looked back to see Cassian well behind them, but there was no question of swimming back upstream to join them. Cassian gave a wave indicating he saw them and Vennor relaxed. The others would catch up with them soon enough.
Outside, the cool air was welcome after the heat of bodies inside. Marianne was talking excitedly about the performance when the covert assault came. A strong hand took him from behind. At first, he thought it was Cassian simply letting him know they’d caught up. But the heavy prod of hard metal into his side disabused him of the idea. Bracketed on either side by two men, they were ushered into the alley. He couldn’t fight for fear of endangering Marianne further. Did the man on her side hold a gun as well? He could only hope Cassian had noticed and was following even now.
‘What is this? I have money,’ Vennor barked, hoping by some mad quirk that these men were actually thugs bent on simple robbery. But thugs didn’t have guns. Guns were a rich man’s weapon. They’d been given these weapons for an express purpose. He swallowed hard. Marianne’s hand was tight around his arm and it was the only sign that she was afraid, that she understood this was not a robbery. This was history repeating itself. He needed to keep the men talking, needed to get one of them away from Marianne, needed to keep Marianne behind him to protect her. He’d not intended for her to be involved. She was supposed to be safely away by now.
The alley went through on both ends, but at that moment the far end looked blocked by something. A carriage? A dray making an evening delivery?
‘Ah, quite the party we’re having here.’ A figure emerged from behind a stack of pallets, dressed darkly, meant to blend into the night, but Vennor recognised the voice and the glimmer of blond hair.
‘Hayes,’ Vennor breathed out, forcing himself to calmness. It would be three to one if he could get Marianne away. He could handle those odds. The Vigilante was experienced at being outnumbered.
‘Bring the girl here.’ Hayes gestured to the man holding Marianne.
‘She stays with me,’ Vennor growled dangerously, but Hayes was not deterred.
‘Your authority is useless here, Newlyn, as was your father’s. You cannot enforce your orders. There is a gun at your side and at hers. I’d prefer just to shoot you, but she is safe enough for the moment. I have plans for her.’
The man holding Marianne tugged at her, but Marianne didn’t let go. She held his arm with all her strength, as if she knew that to separate them was to doom him. She kicked the man in the shins and he gave a gratifying groan, but didn’t release his grip.
‘Miss Treleven, do you really want us to shoot the Duke?’ Hayes drawled, putting an end to the scuffle. ‘You decide. You fight and we’ll end him now. You come to me and we’ll see how this plays out.’
‘Go, Marianne.’ Vennor grimaced, hating the thought of releasing her, of putting her in Hayes’s power, but he needed to play for time, time for Cassian and the others to find them and for an opportunity to fight that wouldn’t endanger Marianne.
‘You looked so pretty tonight, my dear.’ Hayes grabbed for Marianne’s arm and roughly pulled her to him. ‘Keep a gun on that one at all times,’ he instructed his man. ‘That’s your job now that the girl is delivered.’
‘Does this scene look familiar to you at all, Newlyn? It should. This is how your parents died. This is how you will die. You will die knowing that Marianne is mine. I claim her in trade for the bride your grandfather stole from mine. You can die imagining how I will put my sons in her and make a dynasty that will exceed anything the piddling Penlericks could establish.’ Marianne began to struggle; it wasn’t in her nature to accept defeat.
‘Quiet! You don’t know how to listen. I will have him shot on your behalf if you aren’t still. Do you not understand? You are mine now.’ Hayes struck her hard across the face. She went to her knees, stunned from the force of the blow.
Fury rose in Vennor and he grabbed for his captor’s hand in a lightning move that turned the gun away him, firing into the ground, loud but harmless. They both went to the ground, wrestling hard as Vennor struggled towards Marianne. The other gunman couldn’t fire without risk of hitting his comrade which meant that Vennor had some relative safety at the moment, if he could just reach Marianne.
Hayes had her up on her feet and was dragging her, stumbling and falling, down the alley to the blocked end. He meant to take her away! Rage fuelled Vennor. He was nearly free of his captor when the other man leapt to action, wielding his pistol like a club. Vennor tried to duck as he ran. He stumbled, missing a dodge, the butt of the pistol coming down hard on his skull.
Consuming darkness clawed at him as he fell, his one thought in the seconds before he hit the ground was to grab the man’s arm, to bring him down with him, to force him to fire the pistol at him, or in the air, it didn’t matter. The sound would bring help. Not for him—it would likely be too late—but for Marianne. Cassian and the others had to be near. The shot would bring help. His fist closed around the man’s hand, fighting for the trigger with all that remained in him before the darkness came.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A shot exploded in the alley and Marianne screamed for fear of what it meant. ‘Vennor!’ She twisted frantically to look behind her as Hayes thrust her wriggling and squirming into the waiting carriage. Vennor was down, unmoving on the ground. She went for Hayes’s face, nails raking his jaw, her feet kicking out for his shins, his legs, whatever she could reach. ‘You’ve killed him!’ Her cheek still stung from where he’d hit her, her arm sore from rough handling, but none of it seemed to matter. Vennor was dead in the alley. She had to get to him, had to help him, as if she alone could bring him back.
‘You little hellcat!’ Hayes shackled her wrists in one hand and looped a length of rope over them, pulling the loop tight and fastening it to a grip. ‘Yes, he’s dead and about time,’ he sneered. ‘Your golden boy is more tarnished than you know. Soon enough, you’ll be thanking me for saving you from him.’ He seemed to soften for a moment. ‘You are restrained for your own good, you know. As soon as you’ve paid for your betrayal, I’ll let you free.’
He reached out a hand and gently stroked the red mark on her face. Marianne stiffened at the touch, her eyes wary and alert. What sort of game was this? What did he want from her? What could she give him in order to create an opportunity for escape? ‘I know...’ his voice was deceptively soft like his touch. ‘...it’s too soon for you. But you’ll see. We have a brilliant future ahead of us. We’ll be the toast of Cornish society.’
The coach was moving through the dark streets. To a destination in town? To a place outside town? Perhaps he would tell her if she could draw him out by showing interest. Marianne managed a tremulous smile, forcing back her sobs and her fear that Vennor was dead in the alley. Vennor would not want her to give up. Vennor would want her to fight, not just for her freedom, but to see his quest achieved. She’d interviewed enough people to know when they wanted to talk. If ever there was a man who wanted to tell his story, it was Hayes. She was a reporter. She could do this. Vennor had believed in her.
Marianne settled in as best she could with bound hands and began the most important interview she’d ever c
onducted. With luck, the others would find her and, when they did, she’d have a full confession. ‘What did the Duke of Newlyn do to you?’
‘Not the Duke, the Dukes, plural. They’ve engaged in a conspiracy passed from father to son to ruin the Hayes viscountcy.’
Sometimes madness was expressed in rational thought, laid out sanely as if presented by the best of barristers in a court of law. That was what was happening here. Marianne listened carefully, committing every word to memory even as she ached for free hands and a tablet to write upon. Vennor’s grandfather had apparently stolen Hayes’s grandfather’s true love and then systematically set out to financially ruin the viscountcy. She could not show horror or disbelief. She reminded herself that a good reporter was neutral and showed no bias no matter their personal tendencies. The storytellers were not to be judged.
She coaxed details from him instead of arguing against the alternative understandings he presented. The Penlericks were not destroyers of the social fabric, but builders of it, weavers of it. But there would be no convincing Hayes of that. ‘We didn’t want it to come to murder, but I swore an oath to my grandfather. I would finish what my father could not.’ Marianne listened in morbid fascination as he outlined the fatal night three years ago. ‘I hired two men to ambush the Penlericks after the opera. It went well enough, except that Vennor Penlerick wasn’t there. Survivors are a dangerous nuisance. They want answers and they are doggedly determined to have them, especially when they have resources. There was little chance of Penlerick finding anything of use. I personally saw to it that the thugs vanished shortly after the crime so there was no chance for them to rat me out. Then I left for the Continent on a Grand Tour until I felt it was safe enough to come back.’ He smiled smugly, obviously proud of his planning. He’d tied up his loose ends.
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 19