by Merry Farmer
“Miss Hart, you may go,” Lord Watson told Lottie, then immediately ignored her as though she was never there. “The evidence before us needs to be taken into consideration. I will give the members of the House until three this afternoon to peruse these things at their leisure. Not a piece of it is to be removed from this room,” he added, raising his voice. “Guards will be posted to ensure as much. At three o’clock, the House will vote on the matter of Lord Shayles’s guilt or innocence.”
Chapter 20
The hours passed with agonizing slowness. Malcolm had no idea whether Lord Watson believed the story he’d told or if he would take Sir Christopher’s testimony into consideration. He especially wondered if the man would give weight to the evidence Katya’s girls had laid before the lords. It grated on Malcolm’s last nerve to know that, if the evidence had been presented by a man, there would have been no doubt about the veracity of the story. His word and Sir Christopher’s might have to be enough on their own.
“We’ll prevail,” Craig assured him as Malcolm paced by the door to the chamber, watching lords of every leaning return for the vote, even some who he’d hoped had fled and wouldn’t return. “Even I have faith in the conscience of the aristocracy in the face of so much damning evidence.”
Malcolm managed a wry grin for Craig. Whatever the man’s background, he wasn’t dazzled by the rich and lofty, which meant he would either have a viciously short career or a long and fruitful one, depending on how he played his cards with the titled class.
“The evidence is overwhelming,” Peter said. He still looked thoroughly exhausted as he stood by, watching Malcolm pace.
“And we all know Shayles is guilty,” Basil added. “We’ve all known for years.”
Armand, who had recently arrived himself, nodded in agreement.
Malcolm agreed with both of his friends, but it was Katya who he glanced to for support.
Katya stood with the Peter, Basil, and Armand, looking every bit as though she had as much of a right to be there as the men did. And so she did. Katya had done more work than anyone to prove Shayles’s villainy. It was a crime that she wouldn’t be able to vote in the proceedings.
“Whether the House of Lords finds him guilty or not,” she said, “his reputation is shattered and his fortune is gone. He’ll pay a price, rest assured on that score.”
Malcolm would have said that no price short of lifelong imprisonment or death was good enough, but a commotion turned his attention farther down the hall. Rupert was rushing toward their group, looking as though he’d just arrived from Scotland. Thankfully, neither Cece nor Katya’s daughters were with him. But Gatwick was. At least, Gatwick strolled down the hall just behind Rupert, his face a mask of indifference as usual.
“Am I too late to vote?” Rupert asked, out of breath, as he reached their group.
“You’re just in time,” Malcolm said, greeting him with a slap on the back. He still had an issue with the way Rupert and the girls had manipulated him into spilling his soul to Katya, but that score could be settled later.
Gatwick reached their group, but he didn’t slow down or break stride as he sailed past into the chamber. He didn’t look at the rest of them or give so much as a hint that he saw them at all. Burning suspicion turned in Malcolm’s gut. Was the man an ally or still Shayles’s staunchest supporter? The only way to find out was to watch him.
“Come on,” he said, starting toward the door. “Let’s bring this to an end.”
“Inspector Craig and I will be in the gallery,” Katya said, reaching out for Craig’s arm so that he could escort her to the gallery stairs.
Malcolm sent her one last, long look. So much water had flooded out the bridge between them. He still wanted her with every fiber of his being, but he understood now why she didn’t want him. At least not the way he had wanted to be wanted. As soon as Shayles was done and dusted, it would be time for the much more arduous work of untangling the knot they’d made of their lives. At least he still felt as though they were knotted together.
The Lords chamber was buzzing with conversations and alive with energy as Malcolm marched to his usual seat, Peter and Basil with him, Armand sitting farther back, as his title was newer. Far more lords were present now than had been there when the trial started. The whole thing had happened in such a whirlwind, sensationalism overriding usual procedure, that Malcolm’s skin prickled with uncertainty. There was no telling which way the vote would go.
More worrying still, Gatwick had resumed his usual place by Shayles’s side as Shayles stood near the center of the room. The two had their heads together. Gatwick remained all but expressionless, but it was clear that Shayles was furious with him. Malcolm was too far away to hear the substance of their conversation, but he imagined it had something to do with Shayles demanding to know where Gatwick had been in the hour of his need. Malcolm itched to know the answer to the question himself.
The puzzle of Gatwick was momentarily forgotten as Malcolm caught a swish of movement from the gallery and glanced up to see Katya taking her seat at the very front. She looked more anxious than Malcolm had seen her in ages, though she managed to look strong and determined in spite of that hint of worry. She caught him studying her and smiled. The look went straight to Malcolm’s heart. No matter what happened with the verdict, he could be happy if the two of them were able to work out their differences and reunite.
No, that was a lie, he thought to himself as he turned toward Lord Watson. Nothing would make him happier than to see Shayles defeated at last.
All eyes in the room turned toward Lord Watson and all conversations hushed as he took his seat. As if eager to find out Shayles’s fate, every man hurried to his seat and settled, ready to vote.
“The chamber will come to order,” the steward declared in a booming voice, then turned to Lord Watson.
“It’s time we put an end to this matter once and for all,” Lord Watson said. “For one, it’s an embarrassment to this body and to the crown. For another, as Shayles implied, we have much more pressing matters to attend to.”
Malcolm’s heart sank at the mention of Shayles being right.
“The charges before Lord Theodore Shayles are those of criminal abuse of the women employed by him over the course of two decades and profiting off the practice of prostitution. How do you find the defendant?” Lord Watson glanced to the most junior lord in attendance, who sat farthest away from him.
Before the young baron could rise from his seat to say, “Guilty, my lord,” Malcolm’s heart sank further and his stomach tied in knots. Lord Watson had made no mention of the murders of the women who had died working for him. He’d said nothing about kidnapping or coercion, or any number of more serious crimes Shayles could have been convicted of.
The lords rose one by one to announce their vote, starting with the newest and youngest titles and working their way up to the loftiest, most senior noblemen present. For every guilty vote there was at least one not guilty, mostly from men Malcolm knew full well had visited the club or were under Shayles’s thumb.
Worse still, Shayles stood at the front of the room, a sickening grin on his face, as though he knew how the vote would go.
The vote came around to Malcolm and his friends. Basil and Peter both stood and said, “Guilty, my lord,” before taking their seats.
Malcolm stood, staring daggers at Shayles, and declared, “Guilty as hell, my lord.”
Shayles merely sneered at him, then pretended Malcolm didn’t exist. He studied the lords who had yet to vote, seeming to mentally count them. Malcolm did the same. It was clear as day how each of the remaining men would vote. A simple majority was needed to convict Shayles, and it appeared as though they would fall one vote short.
One vote. It all came down to one bloody vote. Shayles would walk free, getting away with the misery he’d caused so many women over the years. All because he’d manipulated things behind the scenes to push up the trial, preventing Craig from speaking to men who might have
otherwise been swayed to vote against him. It was a bloody crime within itself.
Malcolm was on the verge of giving up and leaving the room when Gatwick stood to vote. No one seemed to be paying much attention to him, as his vote was a foregone conclusion. But when Gatwick cleared his throat and said, “Guilty, my lord,” it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room.
No one moved. All eyes were fixed on Gatwick as he nodded to Lord Watson, then resumed his seat as though intermission at the opera was over. The room crackled with incredulity. Several men gaped openly. Shayles lost his smile slowly, his eyes widening as though he were just comprehending what Gatwick had said. All color drained from his face.
A swirl of whispers shattered the silence, growing louder by the second. Malcolm’s heart thundered through it all as the storm broke. The lord seated beside Gatwick—one Malcolm was absolutely positive would declare Shayles not guilty—rose and declared, “Guilty, my lord.” He was followed by another and another and another, all declaring Shayles guilty, all looking at Gatwick as they did. They must have concluded what everyone else seemed to be concluding—that if Shayles’s closest friend and companion for the past two decades was declaring him guilty, he must be guilty.
Malcolm’s heart was so light that he thought he might fly up out of his chair when Lord Watson finally declared. “As per the vote, Lord Theodore Shayles, you have been found guilty of the crimes brought before this chamber. You will be taken from this place and incarcerated in the appropriate facility until such a time as your sentence can be determined. Guards, please escort Lord Shayles out.”
“I’ll kill you,” Shayles roared, not at Malcolm or his friends, for a change, but at Gatwick.
Gatwick stared at Shayles from his bench, his only emotion that of slight bafflement over Shayles’s reaction. He picked at the hem of his sleeve, looking bored.
“I’ll murder you in your sleep, you filthy, back-stabbing bastard,” Shayles railed on as two guards leapt forward to grab his arms. “I’ll kill you for this.”
Gatwick continued to fuss over his clothes, not acknowledging Shayles, but Malcolm could have sworn he saw the man’s lips form the words, “Not if I kill you first.”
Malcolm slumped back in his bench, watching, absolutely stunned, as Shayles was dragged out of the chamber, kicking and screaming. A lightness filled Malcolm’s heart the likes of which he’d never felt before. It was over. After years of anguish and battle, it was finally over. Shayles would be carted off to prison for a long, long time, if there was any justice in the world. Even if he managed to get out, he would forever be a broken man, shunned by society and penniless to boot.
“It’s done, Tessa,” Malcolm said, glancing up to the painted ceiling of the chamber. “Whether it was what you wanted or not, it’s done.”
A second weight lifted from Malcolm’s shoulders. As Shayles’s shouts faded in the hall outside the chamber, the echo of Tessa’s final words faded as well. Malcolm had avenged her as best he could. He lowered his head, letting go of the ache of all those years ago with a solemn sigh. It was over at last.
“Don’t just sit there, man.” Peter roused Malcolm from his moment of reverie. “We have a victory celebration to plan.” The exhaustion had disappeared from Peter’s face, leaving him as lively as a man half his age.
Joy filled Malcolm’s heart and he stood, turning to embrace his friends. Armand rushed from his bench to join them. They weren’t the only ones he wanted to embrace, though. He made his way toward the chamber door, Peter and Basil flanking him, Armand at his back. They were stopped a dozen times along the way to be congratulated by their peers.
“I imagine this will have a dazzling effect on your efforts to pass that bill protecting the rights of women,” one young viscount said, thumping him on the back.
“Mr. Croydon will be ecstatic,” another said as they neared the chamber door.
In fact, Alex was waiting for them, Marigold and Lavinia in tears of joy by his side, when they finally made it out into the hall.
“I can’t believe they voted against him,” Alex said, embracing Malcolm and the others, regardless of who was there to witness the informality. “They actually voted against him.”
“I knew they would,” Marigold said, happier than Malcolm had ever seen her.
“Where’s Katya?” Malcolm asked, scanning the hall and squinting at the gallery stairs.
His question went unanswered as Gatwick emerged from the chamber and walked past him. Malcolm and the others stared at him in silence, as though they didn’t quite know what to make of him. Rather than marching past as though he were the only one in the entire Palace of Westminster, however, Gatwick stopped suddenly, eyes fixed on Lavinia, and changed direction to approach her.
“Dear cousin Lavinia,” he said, taking her offered hand and bowing over it. “How pleasant it is to see you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Lavinia said, brimming with joy. She squeezed Gatwick’s hand as though he were an old friend. “I hear we have you to thank for this, and I cannot thank you enough.”
“It was nothing, my lady,” Gatwick said with self-effacing calm.
Malcolm exchanged a glance with Peter as the rest of them held back, neither offering thanks nor rushing into accusations. Malcolm suspected that, like him, not one of his friends had the first clue what to make of Gatwick on any level anymore.
“I’m sure we will have some sort of celebration tonight,” Lavinia went on, glancing to a frowning Armand. “I would so love it if you would attend.”
Everyone in their group tensed at the invitation, but not one of them opened their mouths to contradict Lavinia.
Fortunately, Gatwick shook his head in polite refusal. “I am deeply sorry that I won’t be able to attend, my lady. I have business elsewhere that will keep me occupied.”
“Business?” Alex asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Gatwick studied him for a moment before saying, “Speaking the truth carries consequences. No doubt there will be others who fear what I might say against them, having said just one word against Shayles.”
“The word ‘guilty’ speaks volumes,” Armand said, crossing his arms. “If it is said once, it could be said again.”
“Precisely,” Gatwick said with a bow. “I believe it would be in my best interest to retire to my country estate as soon as possible.”
“Stay safe,” Lavinia said, genuine concern for him lighting her eyes.
“For you, dear cousin, anything,” Gatwick said, bowed to her one final time, then turned to march away with slightly more speed than was usual for him.
“Do you think people will target him for what he did today?” Marigold asked, biting her lip as she watched Gatwick go.
“I don’t think Shayles’s threat to kill him was an idle one,” Malcolm said.
“But he’ll be in prison,” Marigold argued.
“Prison walls do nothing to stop a man hell-bent on revenge,” Basil said in an ominous voice.
They were all silent for a moment. Malcolm contemplated whether he wanted to extend himself to protect Gatwick or whether the man who had spent so long by Shayles’s side was on his own.
The question only plagued him for a few seconds before his greater concern returned. “What happened to Katya?” he asked, glancing around again. “And Craig, for that matter.”
“Craig followed when they brought Shayles out,” Alex said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “And as for Katya, she gave me this.”
Alex handed Malcolm a small, tightly folded note. Malcolm’s heart and groin thrummed with excitement before he even opened the folded paper. He knew exactly what the note was. It was a vote of confidence, a declaration of intent, and the beginning of the rest of his life.
Chapter 21
By the time Katya heard Malcolm’s knock on the door of her St. John’s Woods flat, she had everything arranged perfectly. The water in the huge copper tub was steaming, tea was laid out on the table, the bedsheets we
re turned down and scented with lavender, and she was completely naked under her Japanese robe. She couldn’t repress her wicked grin as she practically skipped to the door, brimming with excitement that was already having a decidedly physical effect on her.
She peeked through the peephole to make certain it really was Malcolm and not, God forbid, one of her children, then threw open the door and posed seductively against the doorframe.
“Hello, Lord Campbell,” she said in a low purr, giving him her most seductive look through lowered lashes.
Malcolm gaped at her for half a second, visibly stunned, then launched toward her. He slammed the door behind him and pulled her into his arms as though he’d circumnavigated the globe, fought fifty wars, and had finally come home to her. Katya couldn’t help but laugh as his mouth crashed down over hers, then sighed as his hand circled her backside and his kiss set her on fire.
“We won,” he gasped as he backed her deeper into the room, clearly headed for the bedroom. He managed to shed his jacket while groping her curves and stealing kisses. “We finally beat him.”
“I know.” Katya planted her feet when they were near the bathtub, leaning into him to deepen their kiss.
A large part of her wanted to push him to the floor and ride him then and there, but as soon as she raked her fingers through his matted hair and felt the scratch of three days’ beard growth against her cheek, she opted to stick to her original plan.
“Get your clothes off and get in the bath,” she ordered him, working at the buttons of his waistcoat. “I’m not taking a dirty vagrant into my bed.”
“I thought you liked me dirty,” he growled, the light in his eyes positively carnal.
Katya tugged his shirt up out of the waist of his trousers and over his head. When it was tossed aside, she raked her fingernails down his chest to the line of hair disappearing below his belt. She swayed close and whispered, “Not this kind of dirty.”
