“What is the nature of the charges?” the judge asked in a weary voice. The prosecutor for the Crown stood up and read from the document. “Ah, so I finally have the pleasure of hosting Prince Aaron himself within these halls!”
“Yes, Your Honour,” the prosecutor agreed, sounding as formal as he could.
“My, my. I’ve waited a long time for this occasion. Now I can see why the entire town is treating this as a festival day!” the judge said, clapping his hands and smiling wickedly. “There is much to celebrate, after all, when we rid ourselves of the fear caused by a black-hearted criminal such as this!”
“Will the officer read the evidence?” the prosecutor asked, and the officer stood up and came to the center of the room. All eyes were affixed as he read from three letters.
“Thank you, I’ve no need to hear any more,” the judge announced when the officer was finished. “I shall think a verdict will be rather straightforward. While the letter from both the criminal’s daughter and the doctor who tended the patient are compelling, they do not hold sway over the evidence of the esteemed eyewitness, written by his own hand. The Earl of Weavington was in attendance and watched the accused brutally murder the victim, a member of the peerage, the Marquess of Bellton. That, coupled with his many years of criminal behaviors, gives me no pause in condemning Aaron Risewell to death.”
There was a gasp of surprise followed by triumphant cheers in the gallery. The officer once again slammed his staff repeatedly against the floor to bring about order.
“Due to the late hour and being that tomorrow is the Lord’s Day, the sentence shall be meted out at sunrise on Monday.” The judge nodded firmly, signed his name to the order, then left the room.
As the chatter of dozens of voices quickly filled the hall, Prince Aaron looked down and uttered only one word: “Beatrix.”
Chapter 26
Callum awoke to the afternoon sun shining in the window. He immediately felt the most searing pain he’d ever endured, a burning so intense that it vastly overshadowed any memory of the actual gunshot. When he’d spoken the day before, he must have still been under the effects of that blasted morphine, he decided. He wanted nothing more than to thrust his fingers deep into the wound and tear out the source of the pain, though he knew that was a silly hope.
But the pain coursing through his shoulder was nothing compared to the agonizing memory of Miss Beatrix’s face. He remembered all too clearly what had transpired. He, using the only breath he could summon, had declared his love for her and vowed to throw away all that he had for her.
And she had left the room without a word in response.
I am past all hope of redeeming myself. For all our conversations and our stolen moments, I cannot replace myself with the memory of the blackguard who caused her so much upset from that first day we met.
A new memory came to him, that of Weavington calling for the constable. Though he had faded in and out of consciousness in those last few moments, Callum knew what had transpired. Rather than accept the blame for his actions, Weavington—true to his sniveling nature, as always—had forced the blame onto Beatrix’s father.
And Callum had been unable to right that wrong.
But not anymore. There is still something I can do about it. I must go prevent the injustice and save her father!
He tried to push himself up with his strong arm, but even the pull against the muscles in his injured shoulder caused enough pain to force him to cry out loudly. He fell back against the pillows in defeat, only to suffer another stabbing pain as his shoulder collided with the goose-down cushions.
Barclay. He’ll help me. He has no choice!
Unable to reach the cord to ring, Callum looked around for another way. He spied a porcelain tea pot, hopefully not a valuable one, still resting on the tray near the bed, its contents long gone cold. Reaching over himself with his good arm, he strained until his fingertips brushed its handle. With more effort than he knew he could spare, he scraped at the pot repeatedly until it began to turn, inching closer by only millimeters at a time.
Callum paused to rest, leaning back against the cushions until he no longer saw swirls moving before his eyes. He took a deep breath—as deep as the painful wound would allow—and struggled again, reaching so far this time that he was sure he tore some of the physician’s fine needlework.
“There you are, you devil!” he said through clenched teeth when his fingers finally closed on the handle.
He rolled back to his bed and stared at the ceiling until the pain subsided, the delicate tea pot pressed against his chest as though a talisman against further torture. When he could finally breathe again, Callum rolled forward, guarding his shoulder closely, until he was seated upright.
The movement caused the entire room to spin. Doors and windows and tables upended themselves before his eyes, but he squinted tightly to block out the view.
His eyes still closed, Callum sat straighter and pulled his arm back, aiming to hurl the tea pot at the farthest wall. Its shattering sound should alert someone to his plight and send them running to his aide. His arm shook as he held the tea pot up and over his head, readying himself to fling it with what little strength he had left.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a woman cried out indignantly. Callum opened his eyes and dropped his arm, succeeding in smacking the tea pot painfully against his legs. The bed clothes were instantly soaked with cold tea.
“I’m… I mean, I was… why are you here?” he asked, taking in Beatrix’s alarmed expression.
“Where else would I be? You’re injured, and from what I hear, you should be near death!” she answered, taking the tea pot and returning it to its tray. She took the tea towel and laid it across the worst of the puddle to soak up the brown liquid.
“But… I thought you left,” Callum said.
“I had thought to do so,” she admitted. “But Sir Williams had to leave to attend to other patients, and I could not abandon you to whatever infection or illness might take hold. But tell me… what has the tea pot ever done to offend you? Were you hallucinating?”
“What?” Callum asked, bewildered. “Oh no, I was trying to ring for Barclay.”
“Hmm, I’ve only been a guest here but a matter of days, but I’m certain that’s not how you call your staff,” Beatrix teased. “Come on, lie back.”
Beatrix leaned closer and guided Callum by the shoulders. She was so near that he could have reached his arms around her and held her to him, but he dared not. He had no idea what she must think of him now that he played a part in her father’s demise.
“So are you only remaining because the physician insisted?” Callum ventured to ask. “I must know.”
“That is a large part of it,” Beatrix admitted blithely, refusing to meet his eye as she busied herself with rearranging the pillow beneath his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but the eiderdown must come off. It’s soaked nearly through now, and I don’t think you need it anymore. Your fever has come down greatly.”
“I don’t care about that,” Callum pressed, his voice coming out with a hint of desperation. “Why are you here then?”
Beatrix blinked, obviously surprised. She stammered a quick reply, “It’s as you said, the physician—”
“He could have sent for someone else,” Callum interrupted, his voice taking on a low growl. “Or Mrs. Powell could have kept watch and spooned me broth at every interval. I need to know, Beatrix, and I need to hear you say it… tell me why you stayed.”
Beatrix was at a loss. What could she say that Lord Bellton would want to hear? Worse, what could she say to a man who’d risked his very life to keep her father from harm, only to have it come to naught?
“I don’t know what you expect from me,” she whispered sadly, dropping her gaze to her hands as she sank into the chair beside his bed. “What is it you want to hear?”
“I want to hear that my words weren’t lost on you,” he said urgently, wincing at the pain of breathing too deeply. “I wa
nt… I want you to tell me that it’s not only some morbid sense of obligation that keeps you here, but rather… rather that you could not bear to leave me.”
“Is that truly what you want to hear?” Beatrix asked, looking up sharply. “Pray, tell me what you would do with that news?”
“I would rise up from this bed and dance about the room, the happiest man in England!” Lord Bellton replied, but there was no hint of humor in his words. “That news alone would be sufficient to heal me entirely, I’m sure of it. I could take to the docks and wrestle a bear with the strength that your confession would give me.”
“Now I’m certain you’re only having fun, and it’s not polite,” Beatrix argued. “Toying with a woman’s emotions is the cruelest sort of sport!”
“This is no game, Lady Beatrix,” Lord Bellton said, staring at her intently. “I meant every word of my death bed confession, and now I want to know what it means to you.”
“Then you shall have your way,” Beatrix replied icily, betrayed by the tears that proved how his words affected her. “I have the same feeling for you, as much as I wish it weren’t so!”
“Why? Why would you not wish to return my affection when I have declared that I would abandon everything for you?” he asked, smiling in spite of himself at her confession.
“Because what good would it do us? Are you so naïve to think that love or affection are sufficient?” Beatrix wiped at her tears in frustration.
“Of course I am,” Callum answered, still smiling. “I have professed my love for you, and you have confessed to feel that same way for me… albeit it rather grudgingly and not at all in a romantic way.”
“I warned you not to make sport,” she snapped, but Callum caught one of her hands in his and held it close.
“I wasn’t—all right, yes. I was teasing just now. But it’s only because I am so elated to hear that you love me!” He smiled and pressed her fingertips gently to his lips.
“But you are not hearing me. You’ve heard only that which you wanted to hear. I’ve said it rather plainly,” she tried to explain again, “our emotions or feelings for one another are simply not enough.”
“Enough for what? To convince me that you’re perfect and I will never on this Earth find your equal?”
“No!” Beatrix stammered, her heart racing at such declarations all the same. “That when all is said and done, you and I are not equal. You have obligations that do not include me. And have you once considered what my father or his men would have to say about this? Or did you just assume my father would be so overjoyed at your lowering yourself to marry me that he would overlook our terrifying differences?”
“Lady Beatrix! I’d forgotten all about your father!” Callum cried, looking alarmed. “That is why I had tried to fetch the tea pot!”
“I’m sorry? What?”
“I intended to throw it with all my feeble might so that Barclay might hear me and come to my aid. I have to go to your father!” Callum explained, already moving his legs towards the edge of the bed. “If you do not wish to see me in a state of undress, perhaps you can go call for him?”
“You mustn’t do this,” Beatrix said, though her tone was one of defeat. She knew he would do it whether she attempted to prevent him or not. “Sir Williams and I wrote letters on his behalf, and there is no way of knowing what the outcome of his trial may be. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way needlessly.”
“It matters not to me. This is my doing, and I will see to it that it is made right,” he replied. Gesturing to a pair of chairs from the nearby table, he said, “Now, if you would bring those chairs close to the bedside, I can lean on them as I stand.”
Beatrix sighed, fixing Callum with a look of extreme displeasure. He nodded but then smiled wickedly.
“All right then, you’ve made your choice,” he said, reaching to fling back the rest of the bedclothes. “I warned you I am not fully dressed.”
“Ack! No!” she cried, turning away and covering her face with her hands. “Stay as you are, I’ll get Mr. Barclay!”
Beatrix hurried from the room, the sound of Callum’s laughter still ringing in her ears. She was torn with the worst of two possible sentiments: she was livid that he would even attempt to be out of bed, let alone taking a journey of any distance, but Beatrix was also grateful beyond measure and moved to tears that he would risk his own life—again—for her father.
Outside Callum’s chambers, Beatrix turned and collided with Lloyd. Astonished, she looked up and felt her cheeks burn instantly.
“Mr. Lloyd! I am so sorry!” she began, but the butler held up his hand to stop her.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Beatrix, were you harmed?” he asked kindly, his hand poised in the space now between them to steady her should she need it.
“Oh no, thank you. But it’s Callum. He’s in need of some assistance… though I do not think anyone should render such aid! He intends to go after the constables and find my father!” She fumed indignantly and was much chagrined when Lloyd stifled a light laugh.
“My apologies, miss.” He coughed gently and added, “But I have come to find that His Lordship is quite determined when he chooses a course of action. You could not prevent him if you wanted to.”
“But surely there is someone who can make him listen to reason!” Beatrix looked bewildered, desperate to keep him from hurting himself further.
“I think I might be able to do that,” a deep baritone voice called out, causing Beatrix to jump in surprise.
Chapter 27
Ignoring both Beatrix and Lloyd, the older man strode purposefully into the Marquess’s chambers and closed the door behind him. The pair waited breathlessly for any sign of incident within, ignoring the sounds of voices coming from within.
“Might I intrude and inquire as to who that was?” Beatrix asked quietly, still staring at the door.
“That would be the Duke of Tarnton,” Lloyd answered in a near whisper, leaning close to respond. “In other words, Lord Bellton’s father.”
Beatrix gasped, her eyes going wide. What could have prompted such a surprising visit, and one from so far away? After all, Callum had only left his father’s home a week ago.
“Presumably, he has come to look in on his son after he received word of his injury,” Lloyd continued, looking about to make sure no one heard him speaking of these matters to the guest. “But I fear something far more sinister is at work.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, turning to look at the man in alarm.
Lloyd gave her a knowing look and said, “You.”
“Me? What have I done? I’m no sinister character!” Beatrix looked hurt at the insinuation.
“No, miss, I mean only your presence here. I still smell the stench of that weasel the Earl of Weavington, and his hand is all over this, I assure you. Given that the Duke’s arrival was completely unexpected, without so much as a footman to arrive first with word of his impending arrival, I dare say the Duke was warned that his son has set his heart on you.”
“Is there to be no end to the tongue-wagging and treachery in this house? Are all noble families as bad as this?” she demanded, feeling the sting of indignation.
“Quite so, miss. I perhaps should not speak thus to an outsider, so pardon my saying so.” The butler looked around again and added quietly, “I dare say that gossip among the ‘betters’ is all they live for! But not Lord Bellton, of course. He spares no time nor intellect for caring overly much about others’ business.”
“That is refreshing to know,” Beatrix admitted. In truth, she couldn’t reconcile the image of Callum sitting at cards, throwing back goblets or port and slandering any of his peers for their antics or shortcomings.
“There are many among that set, though—perhaps a certain Earl who has recently been here—who find no other entertainment than the latest ‘news.’ Remember, not a word to anyone, it wouldn’t be fitting.” Lloyd began to walk away but turned back to say, “I would come away from there, miss.
It might not be prudent to remain outside of closed doors while conversations take place within.”
Beatrix hurried to follow, but the sound of the door opening behind her and then later slamming shut made her pause. The Duke of Tarnton stormed out of his son’s chambers, then stopped as he neared Beatrix. He looked down at her with an unreadable expression.
Steeling herself for what would surely be a round of insults and accusations, Beatrix squared her shoulders and looked the Duke in the eye, refusing to show any hint that she might cower. Instead of showing her any scorn, however, his expression softened slightly.
“I am afraid that in this life, we can none of us have the things we want,” he began. Beatrix frowned slightly, confused, so he continued. “Our obligations hold far more sway than any desires of our own.”
The Stolen Diadem of a Castaway Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 21
