by Rose Pearson
“Stop, Mr. Soames!” Frederick shouted, his breathing ragged. “You will not be able to escape.” His chest tight, Frederick put all of his energy into catching Mr. Soames, seeing how the man slowed, clearly becoming tired. The fellow turned sharply to his left and Frederick gritted his teeth, aware that this part of London was filled with all sorts of narrow streets, dark alleyways and hidden walkways. Slowing his steps, he moved carefully around the bend, looking for Mr. Soames. There were some others wandering the streets, with an open sewer running straight down the middle of the alleyway. His nose wrinkling and feeling a good deal of tension over the sharp looks that were being sent his way, Frederick began to walk down the pavement, looking to the right and then to the left in order to find Mr. Soames. He kept his chin lifted, his shoulders set firm and his expression dark. There was every chance someone might attempt to steal from him, might come and put a knife to his ribs, but Frederick had to take that risk. Mr. Soames was here somewhere and Frederick was determined to find him.
“Ho, there!” The figure of Mr. Soames suddenly reappeared as Frederick turned his head, seeing the man step into a small, rundown house, the door creaking as it slammed shut. Without hesitation, Frederick hurried towards it, glancing over his shoulder to see both of his tigers coming after him, their livery standing out in stark contrast to the dark and dingy clothes of those who lived here. He did not wait for them to reach him but rather pressed ahead, pushing the door open carefully, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the gloom, before stepping inside.
There came no sound as he walked across the wooden boards that made up the floor, wincing as they creaked under his feet. Holding his breath, he looked upwards, wondering who might be above stairs and if Mr. Soames was, in fact, alone. The room was bare save for a small table and two rickety looking chairs next to the hearth, which held no fire. Moving quickly but quietly, Frederick made his way to the staircase, not seeing the dark alcove to the left of it. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself climbing the stairs and opening the door to reveal Mr. Soames holding his brother at knifepoint, an angry threat in his eyes. His breath quickened. Would he find Adlington here?
A sudden sound startled him and he turned around, only for a short, sharp blow to hit him across the back of the head. Pain rushed all through him and he groaned, collapsing to his knees before falling forward, unable to stop himself from hitting the floor full force.
“What did you do?” he heard someone say, the voice filled with anxiety. “That is the Earl of Greaves!”
“I am well aware of that,” came a second voice, which seemed to Frederick to be coming from very far away. “But you said that he was following you and therefore, I did what was required.”
Dark clouds swamped Frederick’s mind as pain began to thunder hard all through him. His eyes still closed, he fought against unconsciousness, wanting to listen for something more, wanting to hear what else was said, only for the darkness to tug him towards itself, wrapping its arms around him and carrying him away on a sea of oblivion.
It seemed not more than a few minutes before Frederick opened his eyes, and whilst the pain slammed back into his mind, he felt quite certain that, should he put his hands out, he would feel the wooden floorboards of the house in the alley.
What he discovered instead was a soft mattress and a feather filled pillow beneath his head.
“You are awake,” came an anxious voice, as Frederick tried to turn over but felt so weak that he could barely move. “I am very glad, my lord.”
Frederick opened one eye carefully, aware of how the light burned into his head all the more. Letting out a groan, he forced himself to remain as he was, even though he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and return to sleep.
“What happened?” he asked, aware that it was his butler who was speaking. “When was I brought here?”
The butler paused before answering. “You have been in and out of consciousness for some hours,” he said, making Frederick’s body jolt with surprise. “The tigers recovered you from the house, Lord Greaves. They entered just as two men pushed out of the door, removing themselves from the property entirely.”
“And they did not prevent them from leaving?” Frederick asked, giving into the urge to close his eyes again. “Why ever not?”
The butler cleared his throat gently, as though chiding Frederick. “The men did not know that you had been injured, my lord,” he explained, “and when they saw you prone on the floor with blood seeping from your head, they thought only of returning you to the carriage with as much swiftness as possible.”
Frederick squeezed his eyes closed a little tighter, suddenly recalling the sharp blow that had struck him. “I see,” he answered, forcing himself to open his eyes again and attempting to push himself to sit up. “Then I am grateful to them.”
The butler immediately came to help Frederick, moving his pillows so that Frederick might lean back against them. It took all the energy and strength Frederick had to force himself to sit upright, sagging back against the pillows as he did so, but the effort was rewarded by a slow growing sense of awareness that began to come back to him.
“Might I send for something to eat?” the butler asked, going to ring the bell. “And something to drink?”
Frederick’s stomach rebelled at the thought but he forced himself to nod. “Just some toast and mayhap some coffee,” he said, looking all about him and seeing how the curtains were closed save for a chink of light that had come across to him and pierced his eyes. “What time is it, might I ask?”
The butler rang the bell then stood respectfully to Frederick’s left. “It is the middle of the morning,” he said, with a slight inclination of his head. “And will soon be eleven o’clock.”
Frederick blinked rapidly, only just realizing what time it was and just how long he had been abed. “You mean to say, I missed the ball last evening?”
Clearly a little surprised, the butler took a moment to answer. “You were unconscious, my lord,” he said, as though Frederick had expected his staff to dress him up in his things and throw him, unconscious, into his carriage.
“Of course,” Frederick said at once, rubbing his forehead and then wincing at the fresh pain that lanced his head.
“The doctor was sent for and sewed up the wound to the back of your head,” the butler continued slowly, as if expecting Frederick to berate him for such a thing. “He demanded that you rest and so we did as he instructed.”
“I am grateful for your diligence,” Frederick answered, quickly, not wanting any of his staff to feel as though he blamed them in some way. “But I must write to Lady Beatrice, Lady Smithton and Lord Havisham at once.” His stomach churned, making him suddenly queasy. “They would have been expecting me last evening.” Closing his eyes for a moment, he felt another pain slice through him, biting at his heart. He had promised two dances to Lady Beatrice last evening and then had made no appearance at the ball. What must she be thinking now? Did she fear for his safety or did she perhaps believe that he had chosen to stay away? That was the very last thing he wanted, for his affections for Lady Beatrice had grown so quickly these last few days that all he desired was to speak of them to her.
“I shall bring your writing things, shall I?” the butler asked, looking at Frederick a little doubtfully as though he were not quite sure that his master should be doing such things when he had only just awoken from unconsciousness. “I can have the letters delivered within the hour.”
Frederick nodded, then squeezed his eyes shut against the ache that throbbed at the back of his head. “Yes,” he murmured, as though speaking loudly would only bring him more pain. “And have cook prepare a dinner for this evening. I am to invite Lady Beatrice, Lady Smithton and Lord Havisham to dine.”
The butler nodded as Frederick managed to open his eyes again. “At once, my lord,” he said, before departing the room and leaving Frederick alone with his many, tumultuous thoughts.
Chapter Twelve
It was all Bea
trice could do not to rush into Lord Greaves’ drawing-room. She had been fretting since last evening and to have received his note earlier that day had sent her into such a spiral of both relief and anxiety that she had not known what to do with herself.
“Lady Beatrice.” Lord Greaves greeted her warmly as she walked into the room, and Beatrice could not help but reach for him, her two hands held fast in his as he looked into her eyes, his expression regretful. “I am truly sorry that I did not dance with you last evening.” His smile became a little tight. “I was indisposed.”
“You were unconscious,” Lord Havisham muttered, as he and Lady Smithton greeted Lord Greaves. “That is as decent an excuse as any, I think.”
Beatrice blinked back tears as she tried to smile, seeing how both Lord Havisham and Lord Greaves shared a rueful smile. Lady Smithton, her expression sympathetic, murmured how sorry she was to hear that Lord Greaves had been so struck down before Lord Greaves gestured for them to immediately make their way to the drawing-room.
“I have much to tell you all,” he said, taking Beatrice’s hand and placing it on his arm, his eyes seeking hers. “There is yet more confusion and, since the money is to be handed over tomorrow, I fear that there is very little time indeed for us to try and resolve matters.”
Beatrice, more relieved than she could express to see Lord Greaves just as he always was – apart from being a little pale – managed a tremulous smile. “I am sure we will be able to do so,” she said, softly, her skin prickling as he placed his hand atop hers. “I have every faith it will all come aright.”
“I cannot tell you just how much it pains me to know that you were waiting for me last evening,” he murmured, as Lady Smithton and Lord Havisham made their way through. “I am truly sorry, Lady Beatrice.”
She shook her head, placing her free hand onto his so that they stood very close together indeed. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, Lord Greaves,” she answered, softly. “I do not hold it against you. Indeed, I am only grateful that you are recovered somewhat.” Swallowing hard as she remembered what his letter had said, she looked deeply into his eyes, keeping her composure with an effort. “You might have been grievously injured.”
“But I was not,” he whispered, lifting his hand and brushing it down the side of her face, making her eyes close with the flurry of awareness that ran through her. “I am quite safe and standing before you now, praying that this matter might be brought to a conclusion so that I can pursue a future with you that I am certain will bring us both a good deal of happiness.”
Beatrice opened her eyes, her breath hitching. She made to say more, made to speak, only for Lady Smithton’s voice to ring out, reminding them both that Lady Smithton and Lord Havisham were waiting.
“Where should I sit, Lord Greaves?” Lady Smithton called, as Lord Greaves stepped back from Beatrice with a wry smile on his face, regret in his eyes, before walking her into the dining room. Seating Beatrice and seeing Lord Havisham seat Lady Smithton, he then waited until Lord Havisham had taken his seat also before he sat down at the table.
Beatrice held his gaze for a long moment, feeling her heart still fluttering in her chest. There had been something of great significance passed between them, something that might have led to more than just words being spoken had it not been for Lady Smithton, and that gave her such an expectant hope that she could barely concentrate on the food that was being served. The conversation ebbed and flowed for a good few minutes and Beatrice forced herself to concentrate, instead of being lost in a daydream of what might soon be between herself and Lord Greaves.
“From your letter, Lord Greaves, I understand that you were chasing after someone,” Lord Havisham said, turning the conversation to the matter at hand. “Who was it?”
Beatrice looked up, seeing Lord Greaves frown. He had not detailed what exactly had happened nor why he had been chasing this fellow and she had been so caught up with what had happened to him that she had not even thought of such questions.
“It was a solicitor, if you can believe it,” Lord Greaves said, with a wry smile. “By the name of Mr. Soames.”
“And why were you chasing him?” Beatrice asked, trying not to react as he swung his warm gaze onto her. “What wrong had he done you?”
Lord Greaves sighed heavily, took a long sip of his wine, before setting the glass down and making to explain. “The solicitor in question had helped someone forge documents in my name,” he said, making Beatrice gasp. “The documents are signed by my hand, and the wax bears my seal.” His eyes flicked from one to the other, his mouth now pulled into a firm and serious line. “The person in question – whoever it may be – has worked with Mr. Soames to forge my signature and to steal my signet ring from my desk in order to ensure that all is just as it should be.”
“What documents are these?” Lady Smithton asked, gravely. “Are they significant?”
Beatrice held her breath as Lord Greaves nodded, his lips still pulled taut and a steely look in his eyes.
“They are documents that state that I now own the townhouse that was sold by Lord Stratton,” he said, making an audible gasp escape from everyone’s lips. “I, it seems, am the owner of the townhouse, even though I did not even know it was for sale.”
Hardly able to believe what she was hearing, Beatrice let out her breath slowly, her food forgotten and her mind whirring with thoughts.
“Someone has copied your signature in order to agree to a sale without your knowledge?” Lord Havisham queried, as if he could not quite believe what had been said. “And stolen your signet ring?”
Lord Greaves nodded. “My signet ring is where it should be, however,” he answered, spreading his hands. “I cannot explain that other than to think that one of my staff is involved with the perpetrator and Mr. Soames.”
Closing her eyes tightly, Beatrice tried to sort out her overwhelming thoughts, stunned by the knowledge that she now had. “You chased Mr. Soames when it became apparent that he was the one responsible,” she said, opening her eyes to see Lord Greaves nodding. “And he escaped you?”
Lord Greaves grimaced. “He ran into a house of some description and, in following him, I did not see the dark alcove where he must have hidden. Although…..” He trailed off, his eyes becoming a little confused as he looked down at his plate, as though he had just remembered something of significance. “Although I do recall that there were two voices and that one, I felt, was known to me.”
Beatrice’s heart quickened. “Two voices?” she repeated, as Lord Greaves slowly lifted his head to look at her. “There was another there along with Mr. Soames?”
“I think so, yes,” Lord Greaves said, softly, a slightly pained expression writing itself across his face. “And I felt as though I knew the second voice, but I cannot quite bring it to mind.”
Silence reigned for a short time as the four of them looked at each other questioningly, in the hope that someone would have some sort of insight. Nothing was said, no sudden flashes of brilliance overtook any of them and, as the minutes passed, a sense of despondency began to fill the room.
“I did hope that I would find my brother,” Lord Greaves muttered, pushing one hand through his hair in evident dejection. “I believed that once I climbed the stairs, I might find him with Mr. Soames.”
Suddenly, as though she had been hit by a bolt of lightning, an idea came to Beatrice’s mind. She caught her breath, one hand flying to her mouth, her eyes as wide as saucers as she stared at Lord Greaves.
No, said a loud voice in her mind. No, Beatrice. You cannot even think of such a thing! You cannot as much as consider making that suggestion. He will be furious with you and surely you are wrong!
“What is it, Lady Beatrice?” Lord Greaves asked, as their plates were cleared from the table, with Lord Greaves gesturing for his staff to set out the tea things as well as the port on table. Apparently, they were not to rise and go to the drawing-room yet. “What has come to mind?”
Beatrice fought a
gainst the idea as hard as she could, trying her best to get rid of those tormenting thoughts only to feel them overwhelm her yet again. She did not want to say them aloud, fearing what Lord Greaves’ reaction would be and yet there was a hope within those thoughts themselves, hope that she might be correct and that the whole, terrible, situation would come to an end.
“Please, Lady Beatrice, do not hesitate,” Lady Smithton said, encouragingly. “Even if you think it foolish, it is best to say it aloud for none of us have anything at all to comment!”
Again, Beatrice paused, still uncertain as to whether or not it would be wise for her to speak of what she had thought. Glancing at Lord Greaves, she saw that he was waiting for her expectantly, his expression open and his eyes warm. Beatrice closed her eyes and took in a long breath, knowing that she had to express what she felt, no matter the consequences.
“Lord Greaves,” she began, cautiously. “Please believe me when I state that I have no wish to criticize your brother, no desire to set you against your own family and certainly no wish to make things all the more difficult for you. I am not attempting to cast aspersions, merely make a suggestion.”
Something flickered in Lord Greaves eyes, but he said nothing and gestured for her to continue.
“It is only that I thought, as you were speaking, that it might be very easy for a sibling or relative to copy one’s signature,” Beatrice continued, her hands tightening together as she held them in her lap. “And, if your brother called upon you at home, might it not be easy enough to steal your signet ring for a short time and then immediately replace it?” She pressed her lips together, her chest tightening as she held her breath, seeing how Lord Greaves was studying her. His brows were low and furrowed, his eyes dark and his jaw set firm. Seeing his expression, she was quite certain that he would explode in anger at any moment and felt herself tense.
“You are suggesting, I think, that Adlington himself purchased the house,” Lord Greaves said, quietly, his brows still low. “But that makes very little sense, Lady Beatrice, for that would then suggest…..” He trailed off, his eyes suddenly flaring as he understood precisely what she meant.
