by Joyce Alec
“I will not see you condemned.” Mary lifted her face to his, finding an inner strength that she had never before experienced. It flooded her, melting away the fear and the terror of what might occur should she remain. Whether or not her reputation was sullied, whether or not she would have to become engaged all over again, she knew in her heart that a gentleman’s life was of a much greater importance. She could not allow him to be seen as someone potentially responsible for the murder that had taken place here, not when she had the ability to provide the Bow Street Runners with the evidence they would need to ensure Lord Johnston remained entirely free of any possible suspicion.
Lord Johnston shook his head, letting out a breath of relief. “You are, I think, the most wonderful creature I have ever had the chance to know, Lady Ashton. Whilst I would never have prevented you from leaving, I confess that there is a fear of what would happen to me thereafter.” His hand rested on her shoulder for a moment, his expression one of both gladness and hope. “I cannot thank you enough.”
Mary managed a small smile, feeling a little less shaken than before – although whether that courage would remain once she stepped into the room was yet to be seen. “Of course, Lord Johnston. Now, if you will let me lean on your arm, then I shall go look at this gentleman’s face.”
Lord Johnston nodded and stepped aside, offering her his arm. “You cannot see very much at all,” he said quietly. “Just three steps or so, and then you will be able to see his face. You need not go any closer.”
Mary tried to speak but found that her stomach was churning so frantically that it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other as Lord Johnston walked her into the study. The air around her grew thick, and she pressed one hand to her stomach, determined not to either cast up her accounts or require smelling salts.
“There,” Lord Johnston whispered, as though to speak any louder would wake the dead man. “Do you know him, Lady Ashton? Have you any idea who he might be?”
Slowly, Mary turned her eyes towards the large oak desk, seeing the outline of the gentleman’s form lying across the table. A bead of sweat trickled down her back, and she clung to Lord Johnston’s arm. It looked as though the gentleman were asleep on his desk, as though he had grown weary from the studying of his papers. Steadying herself, she let her eyes focus on his face, only to draw in her breath sharply as the shock of it ran all through her.
“You know him, then?” Lord Johnston pressed, looking down at her with concern. “Lady Ashton? Do you recognize this gentleman?”
“I do,” she whispered, quite sure she was about to faint into his arms. “Although, surely, it cannot be…” Dragging her eyes away from the dead man’s face, she looked up into Lord Johnston’s eyes. “That man is my husband.”
7
The following morning, Stephen found himself standing in the very same room where he and Lady Ashton had stood only a few hours beforehand, looking at his study table, which no longer held the form of the dead man. Although he was quite certain that he would have to buy a brand-new desk—for to keep this one with the knowledge of what had occurred seemed horrific.
“Lord Johnston?”
Slowly, he turned around to see Mr. Martin, one of the two Bow Street Runners dispatched to his house last evening, standing in the doorway.
“I think we have everything, my lord,” Mr. Martin said, looking at Stephen with a slight flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “I spoke to Lady Ashton. She has made it clear you have not had the chance to kill the man in the study, so there is not a thing for you to worry about. Although, if she had said nothing, then you might very well be looking at something a little more serious, if you do not mind me saying.”
Stephen managed a tight smile. “Thank you. I am relieved that she was able to provide you with such evidence.”
The Bow Street Runner inclined his head just a little, his eyes sharp as they studied Stephen. A cold sweat broke over him, as though Stephen expected there to be something that would, somehow, drag him back into suspicion all over again.
“You say you do not know the fellow that was killed?” Mr. Martin asked, his eyes piercing. “You certain about that?”
Stephen nodded fervently, recalling how he’d had to support Lady Ashton as she had stared at the dead man in horror. “I never knew Lord Ashton.”
“Then it would surprise you to know that the fellow we found in here was not Lord Ashton,” Mr. Martin said slowly, sending a sudden shock straight through Stephen’s heart. “No, that man was none other than old Thomas Copper, a man we have been hunting for some time.” Mr. Martin sighed heavily and shook his head, as though disappointed that they had found the man dead. “He had done a few wrongs in his life, I can tell you. Always willing to do whatever he had to for a bit of coin. I am thinking that the reason he was dressed up all fancy like – I mean, dressed as one of the gentry – was because he was told to. Probably thought it was meant as some sort of joke. I do not reckon he ever expected to die.”
Seeing a chair near to him, Stephen reached out and grabbed onto the back of it, holding onto it in an attempt to force himself to remain standing whilst waves of astonishment crashed all about him. The man who had been in his study was not Lord Ashton then. Had he been an imposter? Or was the likeness to Lord Ashton simply a coincidence?
“We had Lady Ashton look at the body again before it was taken away – and she confirmed it was not her husband. Although looks like someone took great pains to make sure they found someone who looked a lot like him, given what Lady Ashton said. Now, can you think why anyone would want to do that? Seems an awfully cruel trick to play on someone.”
“Surely the question ought to be, how did they know she would be present with me at the time?” Stephen muttered aloud, rubbing one hand over his forehead. “In answer to your questions, Mr. Martin, no, I cannot understand why anyone would want to give Lady Ashton such a terrible shock. It is horrific when one thinks of it.”
Mr. Martin nodded slowly, his expression a little confused. Then, with a shrug, he turned away from Stephen and walked towards the door. “I will be off then, my lord. Thank you for your time, and I do hope this will not distress your betrothed for too long. My congratulations when the time comes.”
“Thank you,” Stephen said dully, aware that Lady Ashton would have explained her presence in the house by the simple suggestion that she was betrothed to Stephen, just as they had spoken of earlier. Of course, no proposal had ever taken place, but in order to save her reputation, that had to be the only explanation she could give.
Sighing heavily, he watched as Mr. Martin left the room, feeling as though he might collapse with the sheer confusion that seemed to be weighing on his mind. He had not had any opportunity for sleep or rest, given all that had gone on, and now, apparently, he was to send a notice to the paper to announce his engagement to Lady Ashton whilst the rest of the ton whispered about the dead man that had been found in his study. Of course, there was no hope of keeping such a story to themselves, for either the servants would whisper or the Bow Street Runners themselves would tell everyone what they had been involved in, or mayhap someone had seen the body of Thomas Copper being taken from his house.
“Lord Johnston?”
“Lady Ashton,” he murmured, aware of just how white-faced she was. “You should return home now. There is nothing more to be done. I will send a notice to the paper just as soon as I am able.” He cast an uneasy glance towards his desk, knowing that he would not be able to bring himself to write anything on that particular desk. “It appears we are to marry.”
Lady Ashton sent him a tremulous smile. “I did warn you that this might be a consequence, Lord Johnston, did I not?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes, my lady, you did,” he replied woodenly. “I will not pretend that the idea of matrimony is one I reject, for my very reason to come to London was to find an eligible lady to wed, but I would have preferred a longer acquaintance and, mayhap, a rather more usual form of courtship
other than this.” One shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “But it appears we are to be thrown together regardless.”
“You are a good man,” Lady Ashton said, with a good deal more fervency than he had expected. “I will be truthful with you and state that I have never once had the intention of marrying again so soon after my husband’s death, for I was just beginning to enjoy the freedom that came with being with the status I now bear. However, I would rather give that up than have you suspected of a terrible murder you did not do.”
An overwhelming sense of gratitude ran all through him, and for a moment, Stephen found that he could not speak. Reaching for her hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers, shuddering violently as he did so. “You are more than I have ever deserved,” he managed to say, his voice breaking with the emotion that ran through him. “Thank you, Lady Ashton.”
She held his gaze for a long time, her breath shuddering out of her as they stayed close together. Stephen felt his heart and soul begin to draw nearer to her, feeling as though she was both his companion and his support in what had been a very dark night. Had she not been present, had she not been willing to stay by his side, then he might now be looking at a very different future.
“I am truly glad that man was not your husband.” Stephen continued to hold Lady Ashton’s fingers in his own, aware that tears were now swimming in her eyes. “The way you have borne the shock of it overwhelms me, Lady Ashton. You have a strength and courage within you that leaves me utterly in awe.”
She did not smile. “There is something dark under all of this,” Lady Ashton said slowly, her fingers squeezing his. “Someone set up this situation deliberately, I am sure of it. Did they think that I would believe that you had killed my husband, even though I saw him die two years ago?”
“I think,” Stephen answered carefully, “that they did not know your fortitude, Lady Ashton. I believe that it was all well thought out.” His mind had been working hard over the hours he had been sitting with the Bow Street Runners, until finally, having heard that the dead man was a criminal and not Lord Ashton, he had come to an understandable explanation. “It is as you said, Lady Ashton. I was drugged in a similar fashion as before, so that I would have no choice but to return home to my bed. Of course, in the morning, my staff would wake and find the dead man in my study. Therefore, given that I have no explanation other than to say I was asleep in my bed, the Runners might consider me responsible for some reason or other.”
“But what of making him appear to be my husband?” Lady Ashton whispered, the color fading from her cheeks entirely.
Stephen frowned. “This is what I think. Fearing that you might, given our kinship, come to my home to ensure that I was all right, they dressed the man and blackened his hair to give him the appearance of your late husband. I think they believed that you would consider me guilty and would run, screaming from the house. Either that, or that the confusion that arose in you upon seeing the man would render you quite useless when it came to my defense.”
Lady Ashton shook her head. “That cannot be so, for I was only a few minutes behind you, was I not?”
“That would have been enough time to kill a man,” Stephen replied grimly. “As I said, Lady Ashton, they did not think of your fortitude and your courage. That is where they have made their mistake.”
Something immediately changed in Lady Ashton’s expression. Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a perfect circle as her free hand rested on his chest, grasping a tight hold of his jacket. Stephen felt himself twitch at the contact, only to become aware that Lady Ashton’s breathing had begun to quicken. It was evident that she had thought of something important, something that was making a brightness dart back into her eyes.
“I was held back!” she exclaimed suddenly, a flood of color rushing into her cheeks. “At least, they attempted to do so, but I would not be waylaid.”
“What do you mean, Lady Ashton?” Stephen asked, grasping her hands in his own. “Held back? By whom?”
“Last evening, at the ball,” she gasped, her eyes staring fixedly into his own. “As I made to take my leave, an acquaintance came into my path. She attempted to converse with me for some time, but I am afraid that my frustration and concern for you made me a little less than polite. Of course, we have been acquainted for some time, so I cannot think that she meant anything but kindness in her conversation. Unless—”
“Unless it was a deliberate attempt to keep you back,” Stephen said slowly, his mind working hard. “Either in an attempt to prevent you from coming to my home entirely, or to make you delay so that there might be more opportunity for me to commit such the crime that had been set up for me. This was all in the hope that, should you go to my house, you would think me guilty of murdering another gentleman.”
“Tossing us asunder,” Lady Ashton murmured, her shoulders slumping. “But why would someone do such a thing, Lord Johnston? Why would they do any of this? I do not understand it at all.”
“Nor do I,” Stephen admitted. “But we will find out the truth. We must. Now, tell me, who was this lady that waylaid you, Lady Ashton? I think we ought to talk to her first.”
Lady Ashton nodded. “Oh, but of course. It is a lady I have known for some years, ever since we were debutantes together. Lady Moore.”
8
Lord Johnston had not liked the idea of her going to see Lady Moore alone, but Mary had insisted on doing so. To go together would only draw the lady’s suspicion—and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She had parted from him with a promise that they would meet again this evening at Lord Rafael’s dinner party where they might be able to talk about all that had occurred. Thereafter, she had returned home, slept for too few hours, and was now standing on the doorstep of Lady Moore’s townhouse.
As she was shown in, Mary could not pretend that there was something rather odd about the way Lady Moore had attempted to waylay her last evening. It was not as though they had shared many conversations over the last few years, and they had not exchanged any correspondence whilst they had both been wed. It was unfortunate that both their husbands had passed from this life to the next, but it was, as Mary well knew, often the case when a young lady marries an older gentleman.
Not that Lady Moore appeared to be in any way shrouded by the death of her husband, although it was one year before Mary’s husband had died. She was still as bright, as elegant and as flirtatious as before. It was not a quality that Mary wished for herself, to be something of a coquette around the elegant – and sometimes, the married – gentlemen of the beau monde. Then again, Lady Moore had always been that way. Mary had not missed her company in some time, and even on her return to London, she had not gone out of her way in order to greet her or converse with her. They were acquaintances, yes, but not friends.
Which was what made it all the more peculiar that she had been desperate to speak to Mary just as she had been about to follow after Lord Johnston.
What had made things even more confusing was the fact that Lord Johnston himself had been spoken to by Lady Moore that very same evening. He had told Mary that Lady Moore had been rather interested in the relationship between himself and Mary, and when he had assured her that they were simply acquaintances, she had not seemed satisfied in any way. In addition, the fact that Lady Moore had evidently forgotten Lord Johnston’s outburst the last time she had been in his company seemed very strange also. Lady Moore was not known for letting even the smallest matter go without resolving it to the end, and to ignore Lord Johnston’s attempt to apologize simply made very little sense.
“Ah, Lady Ashton, do come in.”
Lady Moore had risen from her chair and was holding outstretched hands towards Mary, as though they were the closest friends in the world. Mary greeted her carefully, pressing her hand for a moment, before sitting down in the seat indicated by her hostess.
“I must say, Lady Ashton, you look remarkably well this morning,” Lady Moore stated, as though she had expected
Mary to look under the weather for some reason. “Marvelous, really!”
A little hesitant as to what such a remark might mean, Mary chose to accept the compliment for what it was and smiled at Lady Moore, who almost beamed back at her. Her stomach was twisting itself in knots without any reasonable explanation as to why it was doing so, and therefore, Mary forced herself to sit quietly adjacent to Lady Moore, her back straight and her hands placed delicately in her lap. She could not explain why, but her skin was prickling as though there was something to fear by simply being in Lady Moore’s drawing room.
“I must apologize, Lady Moore,” Mary began, as the tea tray was set down between them. “I must apologize for my hasty departure last evening. I was in somewhat of a hurry to return home.”
Lady Moore did not smile, nor did she frown. Instead, curiosity entered her expression, her eyes almost staring fixedly on Mary as she continued to speak.
“Of course, to be able to call upon you this afternoon to apologize for my rudeness last evening has been very good of you,” Mary finished, not knowing what else to say. “I am sure you will have a good many callers this afternoon, and so I will not linger in case I detain any of them.”
“Oh no, please!” Lady Moore exclaimed, waving at hand at Mary. “You need not hurry away. Not when we have not spoken to one another properly in such a long time. I am certain that there is a good deal we must say to one another, given our shared sadness.”
“You mean, about our late husbands?” Mary asked, accepting the cup of tea from Lady Moore but having no intention of drinking it until she saw Lady Moore herself do so. “Yes, that was very sad, I confess. I do hope you have recovered from the grief?”
Lady Moore laughed harshly, startling Mary entirely. “Lord Moore was an old fool, and I am glad to be rid of him,” she stated with feeling. “The freedom that comes with being a widow is wonderful, is it not? I expect every gentleman in London to fall at my feet—and, on the whole, they do.” Her eyes narrowed just a little, her smile stuck in an almost dark grin. “All but a few, of course.”
