by Alec, Joyce
Behind her, Julianna heard the door open but did not look around, such was her horror over how Henry was speaking.
“You do not want port, Henry?”
She gasped, twisting her head to see Francis standing framed in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on his brother as he pushed the door closed behind him, before slowly advancing towards Henry.
“Is that because you have put something in it?”
Julianna grasped tightly onto Lord Sharpe’s hand, her eyes wide with horror as she looked from Henry to the glass of port in Jonathan’s hand. No, this could not be so!
“Francis?”
Henry had suddenly gone very pale, his hands grasping for something – anything – that would help to keep him steady.
“Jonathan, do not touch that port!”
Francis’s voice was loud and authoritative, and, much to Julianna’s relief, Jonathan set the glass down, looking as shocked as Henry did.
“I do apologize, Jonathan, for the intrusion, and for the belief that I am dead and buried, but believe me, I have had a good reason for doing so,” Francis continued, as Henry sank into a chair. “I found, much to my relief, that I could trust my sister and Lord Sharpe, and it has been their assistance in this matter that has led me to my final conclusion.”
Henry was staring up at Francis in horror, his face a horrible shade of grey. “You died,” he whispered, his hands white as he gripped the arms of the chair. “I saw your body in the coffin.”
Francis nodded. “You did,” he said quietly. “I did not know then what I know now, and had I done so, I might have feared that you would stab me for good measure.”
Julianna felt as though she had been thrown back into her chair. “Stabbed?” she whispered, looking at Francis in horror. “Henry?”
Francis nodded slowly, his expression grim. “I did not want to have to say this, but the truth is that Henry was the one responsible for Mr. Carmichael’s death. It was he that paid those three men to stand up in court and accuse me of crimes I did not commit.” His eyes flicked around the table, his face resolute. “And now, I fear, he was attempting to do away with you also, Jonathan.”
Julianna saw her brother open and shut his mouth, staring at Francis in evident confusion. Jonathan had not said a word since Francis had appeared, evidently quite overcome with the shock of what he was seeing. She pressed Lord Sharpe’s hand under the table, struggling to contain all that she was thinking and feeling. Henry! Henry was the one responsible, not Francis. But why? Why had he done such a thing?
“That day at Lord Thurston’s home,” Lord Sharpe murmured, an expression of understanding on his face. “Those men were describing Henry Newton.”
Francis gave a jerky nod, as though this truth was as painful for him to say as for Julianna to hear. “I have had a year to go into the depths and the intricacies of the events surrounding my supposed crimes and subsequent conviction, but without your help in finding those three men and bringing them to the marquess’s house, then I might never have found the truth.” He gave Lord Sharpe a tight smile. “Yes, I was waiting outside the house and followed those men. I ensured they gave me a very good description of the fellow who had told them to do such a terrible thing as lie before God and man. Whilst that description could have been any number of men, I already had the suspicion that Henry was the one involved in it all.” He shook his head, looking almost despairing. “I knew that Henry had hated me for some time, ever since our father’s will was read out. I knew that he detested the fact that I was to have more of a fortune than he, and that you, Jonathan, were to have the greatest amount as the new Baron Hollard.” He stepped away from Henry and towards Julianna, who felt as though she were quite unable to get her breath.
“But that does not give me a good reason to murder,” Henry snapped, a little color returning to his cheeks. “This is all nonsense.”
“If only it was,” Francis replied softly, his tone close to mournful. “I had a year, Henry. A year to think and consider and wonder who would try to ruin me so terribly, who would try to push me towards the gallows. The only person I could think of was you.”
“But why?” Julianna asked, her voice tremulous. “For what reason?”
There was a short silence, as though Francis were giving them the opportunity to consider the matter for themselves.
“Because,” Jonathan said eventually. “Because he wants what we have. What you have and then, in the end, what I have.”
Julianna swallowed hard, her throat aching terribly. She could see now that such a statement could be quite true, and as much as she did not want to admit it, she knew that this was the only reasonable explanation.
“You felt wronged, Henry,” Francis said, addressing his younger brother. “You, as the third son, were given the smallest share. You rebelled against that; you grew bitter and cold. In the end, after it had eaten away at your heart, you decided to get what you could never possibly hope to have on your own: a title and the entirety of our father’s fortune.”
“And so, you tried to have Francis convicted of things he did not do,” Julianna whispered, her vision blurring with tears as she saw how Henry’s head had sunk down low. “Francis pretended to take his life so that he might have the opportunity to discover who it was that had done such a terrible thing, and the answer has turned out to be you, Henry.”
Lord Sharpe pulled his chair closer to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders in support. “And that is why you believe the port is poisoned, Francis? Because in order to gain the title, both you and Baron Hollard would have to die.”
Francis nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on his younger brother. “Yes, that is so,” he said sadly. “The more I suspected Henry, the more concerned I became for Jonathan.”
A sudden thought struck Julianna between the eyes. “You wrote the letter to Hollard, begging him to come here!” she exclaimed, pointing one finger at Henry. “You wrote pretending that it was I who required Holland’s aid, so that you might bring him here in order to do him in.”
Henry’s head slowly began to lift, his eyes dark and malevolent. “And I was very close to succeeding,” he said softly, his admitting to such a terrible crime seeming to mean nothing to him. “I thought I could trust Mr. Carmichael; I thought I would have an ally in my search for justice, but he turned his back on me.” His jaw jutted forward, his eyes glittering with dark intent. “It was too easy to arrange, Francis. Much too easy. I knew where you were to be; I knew that you would rush to any sort of commotion. Mr. Carmichael was much too easily led, believing that I was meeting him so that I might set things right, but he was just a pawn to be used as I pleased.” He rose to his feet, his expression almost triumphant. “It was all so very easy, Francis.”
“I can hardly believe this,” Jonathan muttered, as Julianna began to sob, her heart broken. “Henry, how could you?”
Henry laughed harshly. “As I said, brother, I care nothing for this family. I seek justice for myself, to gain the fortune that I was always meant to have.”
“Our father was more than generous—”
“To you!” Henry shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. “But I was given the least, only due to the accident of my birth. But it seems I am to be denied by my own family, yet again. How very unsurprising.”
Julianna shook her head. “I saw you in the park that day with Lady Chiders, Henry,” she said softly, as tears began to flood her eyes. “You are still continuing along the same path. You stole from her. How many others have there been? How many crimes have you committed, simply in order to further yourself?”
Henry sneered at her, standing tall now as though he were above them all. His expression grew darker still, his face holding an evil that Julianna had to turn away from, burying her face in Lord Sharpe’s shoulder. “I will do whatever I have to in order to gain what I require,” he stated, before turning on his heel.
“Do not even think about—”
The sound of running feet and a slammed d
oor brought Julianna’s head up from Lord Sharpe’s shoulder, staring at the closed door in horror. Francis and Jonathan were gone in a moment, chasing after the brother that had tried to kill them both.
“It is over,” Lord Sharpe said softly, holding her close. “It is over, my dear Julianna. It will be painful for a time, and the scars will remain with you always, but for now, the truth has come out and the matter is at an end.”
She looked up at him, seeing the love in his eyes. “Hold me close to you,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. “I do not want to be without you for even a moment.”
Lord Sharpe obliged immediately, holding her tightly in his protective embrace, whilst Julianna cried quietly into his neck.
Epilogue
“He has been acquitted.”
Julianna looked up from her writing desk, rising quickly to greet her husband. It was now six months since Henry’s confession, six months since Francis had returned from the grave.
Lord Sharpe held her close for a moment before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “It is over, my dear. Francis will be able to return to society now.”
She nodded, her heart still aching with what had occurred. “I am so very glad to hear it.”
He kissed her cheek, his hands reaching up to frame her face. “London will be aflame with the news,” he said with a wry smile. “Should you like to return home, my dear? I would be glad of the countryside’s peace and quiet, I think.”
A smile crept across her face, her heart filling with love for her husband who knew her so well and cared for her so deeply. “Yes, I think I should like that very much, Sharpe,” she said softly. They had only come to London to support Francis and Baron Holland in removing the blame from Francis’s shoulders, even though in doing so, they had to set the guilt solely on Henry. However, Henry had been sent to the continent by Baron Holland, under strict guard, where he would have no other choice but to work hard for the rest of his days. There would be no return to England for Henry, but neither would there be the gallows. It was a bittersweet thought; for as much as she knew Henry deserved to bear the consequences of his crimes, he was still her brother.
“Francis and Holland will join us for dinner this evening,” her husband said, drawing her attention back to him. “A celebration in a way.”
She reached for him, her arms about his neck, feeling a peace settle over her heart. A peace that had been missing for a good few years. “That is a wonderful idea, my dear. Thank you. You are truly the most considerate gentleman I have ever known.”
“That is only because you have made me so,” he replied softly, looking deeply into her eyes. “Before I met you, Julianna, I had no thought of marriage, no thought of love or affection or anything of the sort.” He smiled, touching her cheek gently. “But now I confess to you that I am happier than I have ever been before. You have made my life complete, Julianna. With this burden gone, we can look to our future without restraint. I can think of nothing better than spending each and every day by your side.”
Smiling up at him, her heart filled with love, Julianna pulled herself even closer to him. “I love you, Sharpe,” she whispered, as he began to lower his head.
“And I love you, my dear Julianna,” he replied, before kissing her gently.
* * *
The Viscount’s Wife
Weddings & Scandals
The Viscount’s Wife
Text Copyright © 2019 by Joyce Alec
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First printing, 2019
Publisher
Love Light Faith, LLC
400 NW 7th Avenue, Unit 825
Fort Lauderdale, FL 33311
1
Nineteenth Century, England
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Miss Henrietta Reapson turned towards her new husband, trying to smile against the pain in her heart. She felt nothing for Viscount Chaucer, who was at least fifteen years her senior, according to what her father had said. But she was now Lady Chaucer, she realized, no longer a part of her father’s household and certainly no longer free to make any sort of decisions.
Not that she had ever been able to make decisions before, given the tyrannical way her father, Baron Reapson, had run his household. Once, when Henrietta had been forced to endure yet another of his raging speeches directing his gaze and words at every fault she had, Henrietta’s father had told her that his own mother, her late grandmother, had been the most ridiculous creature who had shown little respect for her own husband. Apparently, she had bought whatever she wished, gone wherever she wanted and had behaved just as she had thought best. Her grandmother’s reckless ways almost caused her family to lose their fortune. The previous Baron Reapson, Henrietta’s grandfather, had been brought nothing but shame because of this – or so Henrietta’s father had told her.
It was because of this that she and her sister, Mary, had been treated in such a callous manner. She had never once been given the freedom to choose even the color of her gowns, for her father had insisted on approving every single garment she had ever purchased. Likewise, he had made sure that the books she read, the shoes she wore, and even the music she played were all to his satisfaction. Of course, she had argued, tried to stand up for herself, and had borne the consequences of such things. Nothing had changed, no matter how hard she had tried.
She had never really known freedom at all.
“Do hurry up.”
Glancing up at her new husband, Henrietta tried her best not to let tears fall, despite the fact that they were burning in her eyes. “I just wish to thank those who have come to witness our marriage, Lord Chaucer,” she said quietly, wincing as though she thought he might strike her for such insolence. “I shall not be more than a few minutes.” Silently, she thought that it was more than rude for a gentleman and his new wife to simply climb into their awaiting carriage and depart without so much as a single wave or a word of thanks to those who had come to join them at the church, but she did not dare say such a thing to Lord Chaucer. After the threats her father had laid on her shoulders of late, Henrietta was quite certain that Lord Chaucer would not hesitate to punish her—physically or otherwise—for any sort of insult he considered her to make. And yet, she could not simply turn her back on her guests, for that would make her out to be rude and entirely inconsiderate, and that was not the person she was.
“I shall give you three minutes only,” Lord Chaucer replied stiffly, not looking at her. “I will be in the carriage.”
Henrietta stared after her husband in dismay as he walked through the small gathering of guests towards the carriage, not looking to the left or right as he went. He was of small stature but rather portly, meaning that he walked slowly for a gentleman. She cared nothing for him, of course, but his behavior towards their guests was extremely embarrassing and Henrietta felt her face flare with color as she tried to maintain her own composure.
“Why are you not with your husband?”
Henrietta cringed as her father’s sharp words tumbled around her ears. “I am to thank the guests on his behalf,” she replied, as quietly as she could. “You are to join us for our wedding breakfast, I believe?” She had not had much to do with the preparations and plans for her wedding, but her husband had informed her that the wedding breakfast would be a small affair, comprising of her parents, her sister and her husband, Lord Preston, and some relations and associates of Viscount Chaucer himself. Not that she had any particular notion of whom these relations might be, given that she knew very little about her husband and his aff
airs.
Her father, tall, thin, with greying hair, a long, thin nose, and sharp, brown eyes, regarded her with an almost disgusted air, as though she were a constant source of displeasure in his life. Henrietta did not doubt that it was true, having become well used to the fact that, in her father’s eyes, she could do nothing of merit.
“You should know that we are to attend, Henrietta,” he sniffed, turning away from her. “These plans should be so firmly fixed in your mind that you need not even consider asking such a question as that. Now, do go on. I can see your husband is waiting for you and you know that I have warned you it would be best not to displease him.”
“I shall do so when I am quite ready, Father.” The words came from her mouth with a touch of sharpness, even though she was cringing inside. Her father glared at her, his mouth pulling into a thin line. She had displeased him yet again.
Henrietta heard a quiet whimper come from just behind her father and dared a quick glance in her mother’s direction. Her dear mama, who was as thin and as frail as Henrietta had ever seen her, was staring at Henrietta with those watery blue eyes of hers, evidently terrified that Henrietta would be punished in some despicable manner simply for being tardy. Not for the first time, Henrietta’s heart went out to her dear mother, who had been in this state of anxious frailty for a good many years. It was almost a reflection of the person Henrietta herself might become one day, given that her new husband, Viscount Chaucer, shared many qualities with her father.
