Dicing With the Dangerous Lord

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘It is finally over,’ she said and let her forehead rest against his shoulder.

  His lips brushed her hair. ‘No, Venetia,’ he whispered and tilted her face up to his. ‘It is only just beginning.’ And there was a warmth and tenderness in his eyes that lit a hope in her heart. ‘What you said to me as you left the prison cell...’

  Her heart lay exposed before him, ready to be crushed. ‘It was the truth, Francis. With you it has always been the truth, no matter what else you might think.’

  ‘You love me.’

  ‘Yes, I love you.’

  His thumb caressed her lips as if he sought to capture the words, his eyes studied hers. ‘I love you, too, Venetia.’

  Her breath trembled. Her heart blossomed. ‘I know.’

  He kissed her and, sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her through to his bedchamber, and with her portmanteau lying there unpacked, he laid her on his bed and made love to her.

  * * *

  Lord Murder walks free. Linwood secures freedom and the Divine Miss Fox with six-figure sum and lure of title. The headlines were scathing.

  ‘You could not stop them going to print?’ Razeby nodded towards the newspapers spread across Linwood’s desk when he called the next morning.

  ‘We do not own all of the newspapers in London.’ Linwood topped up both their coffee cups.

  ‘Only most,’ smiled Razeby.

  ‘It means the scandal can be contained to a certain extent.’

  ‘That is indeed fortunate.’ Razeby’s gaze moved from the headlines. ‘Has Miss Fo—’ Razeby caught himself. ‘Has Lady Linwood seen them?’

  Linwood nodded.

  ‘That is not so fortunate.’

  ‘Perhaps, but Venetia understands how the press works and forewarned is forearmed.’

  Razeby glanced down at his coffee cup. ‘Perhaps the two of you should get away. Go to the country and lie low for a few months until the worst of it blows over. I have a hunting lodge in Scotland that you are welcome to use.’

  ‘Thank you, Razeby, but you know I cannot do that.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Razeby’s expression was grim.

  ‘We mean to face down the scandal.’

  Razeby gave a nod and sipped at his coffee. ‘For what it is worth, Linwood, there are a lot of people who think Rotherham got his just deserts.’ Razeby’s eyes met his, communicating the message at which his words only hinted.

  Linwood was very careful not to give even the slightest reaction, but he felt the shadows flit across his soul.

  The soft rustle of silk sounded. Linwood glanced up to see Venetia standing in the doorway that led to the bedchamber. He wondered how much she had overheard.

  ‘Lady Linwood,’ Razeby murmured and set down his coffee cup. Both men rose to their feet, but only Razeby bowed. ‘Forgive me if the hour of my call is too early. I did not intend to disturb you.’

  ‘Your visit is nothing of disturbance, Razeby, you are very welcome here,’ she said smoothly, as dignified and self-assured as any duchess, but with an underlying edge of coolness.

  ‘You are very gracious, but I will take my leave of you both. Lady Linwood...Linwood.’ Razeby made his bow. He looked again at Linwood. ‘If you change your mind about the hunting lodge...’ He clapped a hand against Linwood’s shoulder.

  Venetia came fully into the room and sat down in the chair that Razeby had vacated.

  There was a small silence before she said, ‘I heard what he said to you of Rotherham.’

  He waited.

  ‘He thinks you guilty.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Yet he is your friend.’

  Linwood’s gaze flickered away before returning to hers. ‘Venetia, all of London thinks me the man who got away with a duke’s murder. They will always do so.’

  ‘Not if they were to find the real murderer.’

  Tension flickered in his jaw. Darkness flashed in his eyes. His gaze moved to the distance, his expression was pensive.

  ‘But that is not what you want, is it?’ she said softly.

  His eyes moved to hers again, his gaze searching hers as if he could look within and see her very soul. ‘No,’ he finally admitted. ‘It is not.’

  The admission hung between them.

  ‘Why must you ever protect him?’

  ‘It is not him I protect.’

  ‘Then who?’

  He shook his head. ‘It is not my secret to tell, Venetia. I swore an oath of secrecy and I honour my oaths...all my oaths.’

  And in the silence the marriage vows he had sworn seemed to whisper between them, along with the words of another vow. We are sworn to speak the truth or nothing at all.

  ‘I know. It is what betrayed your innocence to me.’

  He smiled and there was both sadness and cynicism in that smile. ‘Despite all of the evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He reached across and brushed his lips against her forehead. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Even with my father’s and my own influence upon the newspapers... You know this is not going to be easy.’

  ‘Nothing good ever is,’ she whispered.

  They shared another smile. And then his lips found hers and he kissed her properly.

  * * *

  But through the days that passed, no matter how much Linwood tried to hide it, Venetia knew that he was worrying over something. She could see it brooding in his eyes when he thought she was not looking. In the small hours of too many nights she woke and sensed him lying awake beside her in the darkness. Sleep seemed loath to visit him and when it did it brought nothing of rest, only dreams that haunted him all the more. And she knew that all of it centred around Rotherham’s murder. Her husband had not killed Rotherham, but he knew who had. And whatever dark secret lay at the heart of the mystery, it was important enough that Linwood would have given his life to protect it, just as he was prepared to bear the unjust label of the murderer who had evaded justice.

  She was worried for him, worried over the terribleness of the secret—and what it would mean for them both. She could not kiss the worry from his eyes, as many times as she tried, and she had no right to object to his keeping the secret, not when she was still keeping one of her own.

  A feeling of such tenderness and overwhelming love for him welled up in her. This man who had endured so much because of her and to whom her heart was tied. He loved her, in spite of the fact she was Rotherham’s daughter. And she could not bring herself to tell him the other half of it, for fear that she would lose that love.

  One night she awoke to find the bed beside her empty, the sheets cold. She climbed from the bed and, pulling a long black shawl around her shoulders, went to find him.

  He was standing by the side of the window in the drawing room, staring out into the night. The room was in darkness, the light of the moon kissing the nakedness of his body silver.

  ‘Francis,’ she whispered his name, feeling the chill of his skin as she slipped her arm around his waist and kissed his shoulder blade and the top of his arm before moving to stand by his side and share his view.

  ‘Venetia.’ His hand slid to rest upon her hip and pull her closer. ‘I did not mean to wake you.’

  ‘You did not.’

  They stood together and looked out at the clear night sky. The moon was a sickle blade, silver and slender, and sharp enough to see the tiny shadows that spotted it. And the myriad of stars that scattered across the darkness of the heavens were brighter than any diamonds. Her eyes found the familiar shape amongst them, that meant so much to them both.

  ‘Pegasus,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ He kissed the side of her brow.

  And they stood in silver silence and traced its constellation.

  ‘You are worried.’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Over Rotherham.’

  He nodded.

  ‘They cannot hang you, even if they do think you guil
ty.’

  ‘That is what concerns me, Venetia.’

  ‘Francis?’ Her eyes leapt to his in sudden fear.

  ‘Do not worry. I have no wish to dance upon a gibbet. But will it stop them seeking another neck to place within that noose?’

  ‘Everyone believes in the guise of your guilt. How can it be seen as justice if they start looking for another?’

  ‘I hope you are right, Venetia.’

  ‘And I wish I was wrong.’

  He stroked his fingers against her cheek. ‘If you knew what that would mean, you would not wish it.’ And there was something so sad and dark in his voice that it made her shiver.

  His lips pressed where his fingers had touched. ‘You are shivering with the cold. Let us go back to bed, Venetia. Tomorrow we have my parents to face and the first full scrutiny of public glare.’

  Through the darkness his hand found hers and interlaced their fingers.

  * * *

  The clock’s ticking was loud within the Earl of Misbourne’s drawing room and the chink of Lady Misbourne’s fine bone-china cup even louder as she set it down upon the saucer. Linwood’s mother had not looked at Venetia once since she had come into the room.

  ‘Perhaps your...wife...would care for more tea,’ she addressed Francis, her face almost pained at the word wife.

  Venetia looked as unperturbed as ever. She set her cup down in its saucer with careful refinement. ‘More tea would be delightful, Lady Misbourne.’

  His mother made no move to pour the tea. She did not even glance at Venetia. Her mouth was as pinched as if she had been sucking on a lemon, her expression stubborn and hostile.

  The moment of awkwardness grew.

  Venetia reached out and lifted the teapot. ‘Would anyone else care for more tea?’

  Misbourne cleared his throat and murmured a decline.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ Linwood said and felt as proud of his wife as he was ashamed of his mother’s pettiness.

  ‘In that case...’ She calmly topped up her own cup alone and set the pot down.

  Lady Misbourne’s face was aghast. She glared at Venetia. ‘How dare you play hostess, madam?’

  ‘Very easily, when you are too rude to do so, Mother,’ said Linwood.

  ‘Rude?’ Lady Misbourne gasped and stared as if he had just slapped her. ‘I will tell you what is rude—bringing that woman into my home and expecting me to wait upon her!’

  ‘Lest you forget, that woman is my wife. And if you cannot treat Venetia accordingly then we will leave right now.’

  Lady Misbourne’s face began to crumple and she clutched a wisp of lace handkerchief to her eyes.

  ‘Have a care how you speak to your mother, Francis,’ Misbourne chided. ‘She is of a sensitive disposition and this is not easy for her.’

  ‘It is not easy for any of us,’ he replied. ‘You should remember that were it not for Venetia I would be swinging upon a scaffold.’

  Misbourne scowled and got to his feet. ‘Hell’s teeth, boy! She is the one who placed the noose around your neck in the first place! Were it not for her, you would have got away with it scot-free. She has manoeuvred you to her advantage. The apple has not fallen far from the tree. After all that Rotherham did to this family, we end up with his bastard lightskirt daughter as part of it. How he must be laughing at us from beyond the grave!’

  Linwood knocked his cup over as he got to his feet and squared up to his father. ‘You go too far, sir!’ he said in a deathly quiet tone.

  Venetia rose and laid her hand against his arm to stay the tense ready-to-strike muscles beneath.

  His father backed away. ‘Maybe. But you are my son, my heir. I might have gone along with and organised your marriage to her to save your life, but you cannot expect me to like anything of the situation.’

  ‘The situation is not how you imagine.’ Linwood’s gaze held that of his father. ‘Not with Venetia and me...nor any of the rest of it.’ It was as close as he could come to telling him.

  And maybe Misbourne understood something of what he was saying, for he put his head in his hands and sighed a sigh of resignation and sadness. ‘Why does it have to be her?’

  It was Venetia who answered, her expression strong and angry as she did so. She looked beautiful and incensed. ‘You are asking the wrong question, sir.’

  Misbourne’s brow creased. He turned to stare at Venetia.

  ‘You talk of him getting away with it!’ She shook her head. ‘Your son, who was so determined to take the blame and go to the gallows, and yet could not admit the murder. Did you ever even ask him if he was gui—?’

  ‘Enough, Venetia,’ Linwood stopped her, but her unfinished word, guilty, echoed unspoken in the air.

  ‘Is it, Francis?’ She turned to him, a fierceness flashing in her eyes. ‘I hope so.’

  His father’s gaze leapt to his, and Linwood saw the shock and the sudden pallor beneath the grizzled grey of his beard, and, for the first time, doubt.

  ‘Francis?’ his father whispered.

  ‘You never asked me,’ he said. ‘Not once. Such faith in your knowledge of me.’

  ‘But...?’ His mother stopped fretting with her handkerchief and got to her feet before his father. ‘What is he saying, George?’

  But his father was still staring at him with an expression of frozen horror. Misbourne’s face was ashen, his lips pulled tight and colourless. Linwood met his father’s gaze, looked directly into those black eyes that were so like his own, and lowered his guard to let his father see the truth.

  ‘My God...’ his father whispered as he finally understood.

  ‘George?’ His mother sounded frightened.

  ‘I will leave you to explain, sir.’ Linwood bowed. ‘If you will excuse us, my wife and I must ready ourselves for this evening.’ With Venetia’s hand upon his arm they turned and walked away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A few hours later Venetia stood before him in the hallway of their own apartment, waiting for him to slip the dark-velvet evening cloak around her shoulders. The evening dress she was wearing was the same deep dark red she had worn on a night on a balcony that seemed a lifetime ago, the silk of the skirt sweeping down to caress the curves he knew lay beneath. Her hair was the same dark-satin lustre, pinned and coiled, with an arrangement of cascading tendrils and curls that teased enticingly around her neck. She looked even more beautiful than she had done on that night that had sealed both their fates, because now when he looked at her he saw not the sensual sophisticated actress, but the truth of the woman beneath.

  From his pocket he produced a black leather box and handed it to her.

  The breath escaped her in a small gasp as she opened the lid. Inside the necklace of rubies glowed as deep and dark and translucent as the dress she wore and the surrounding diamonds glittered brighter than the stars in a midnight sky.

  ‘The Linwood rubies,’ he explained. ‘My mother sent them round. As my wife, they are yours by right. It is her attempt at an apology, and a statement of support before all London when you are seen wearing them tonight.’

  ‘They are beautiful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not as beautiful as you,’ he said as he fastened the stones around her neck.

  They stood in silence in the candlelit hallway, their eyes clinging together, both of them knowing what they were going out to face in the theatre that night.

  ‘Are you ready, Venetia?’

  ‘With you by my side, I will always be ready.’ She placed her hand upon his arm and together they walked out to their town coach.

  * * *

  The reaction at the theatre was as Linwood had anticipated. There were stares and gaping jaws. There was the buzz of gossiping lips and the too-loud whispered words he could not fail to hear. Murderer. Harlot. Those who had been lifelong neighbours of his parents, the woman who was his godmother, men who had called themselves his friends, turned away, giving both him and Venetia the cut direct. He felt the slow fuse of his temper ignite, not for
himself, but for his wife. The ton was cruel and petty and blind to its own hypocrisy. He felt the pressure of Venetia’s fingers against his arm and looked down to meet her eyes. The woman that he saw there was stronger, calmer, more confident than Venetia Fox had ever been. She smiled at him and, despite everything, he smiled back.

  ‘We would not wish to disappoint them now, would we?’ she murmured and, lifting her lips to his, brushed them with a kiss.

  The ladies surrounding them gasped in horror, the men sighed in longing.

  ‘You are incorrigible, Lady Linwood,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘As are you, Lord Linwood.’ Her smile deepened.

  And his heart skipped a beat.

  He followed her into their private box, ready to face the world.

  * * *

  Venetia stood by the window of their day room the next afternoon and watched the dark figure of her husband ride away to his meeting at his club. She watched until he had disappeared from sight. The sun was shining, but the air held the damp chill of fast-approaching winter. She pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and went to write her letter to Madame Boisseron.

  It was only twenty minutes later that the knocker sounded against the door and the butler appeared. ‘Lady Marianne, Mrs Knight to see you, my lady. Are you at home?’

  She nodded. ‘Please show her in.’

  And then Linwood’s sister was before her, a look of uncertainty upon her face. ‘Lady Linwood...Venetia... I was just passing and I wondered if you and Francis might like to come to dinner one evening next week.’

  ‘That is very kind, Lady Marianne.’

  ‘Just Marianne, please. Are we not sisters now?’ Lady Marianne smiled shyly.

  ‘We are.’ Venetia returned the smile. ‘Thank you, Marianne. I know how hard it must be for you to come here.’