by Amy Corwin
“A bit late,” Marcus commented in cutting tones.
“Marcus,” Dorothy protested, glancing up at Marcus’s hard face.
Mr. Eburne had tried. He was obviously not made of the sternest stuff, but he had come, after all, striving to do the right thing.
Mr. Eburne flushed and moved crab-wise away from them, back toward the door. Droplets of perspiration ran down the sides of his face. “I apologize, my lord.” He gave a bow. An odd creaking sound revealed that his particularly upright posture might be due to the presence of a corset.
“Mr. Eburne has been in Germany for the last few months, my lord,” Gaunt said.
“Yes, yes, yes! Germany!” Eburne nodded, his double chin wobbling. “Just returned last week. So sorry, my lord. Thought they’d have him by now—or whoever did the dastardly deed—what?” His rising tone of voice turned what should have been a statement into a question.
He gazed at Marcus hopefully, blinking and tugging at his waistcoat which had a tendency to ride up, exposing several inches of the white linen shirt beneath it.
For some reason, Dorothy like him. She gave him a timid smile which he returned with evident relief.
The scrape of a shoe behind her caught Dorothy’s attention. She absently stuffed the letter into her pocket and turned to catch Grace’s wrist.
Dorothy dragged her sister forward. “Though we have not been properly introduced, I must thank you for your concern, Mr. Eburne.” She smiled again and bit the corner of her lower lip when it trembled. It was such a terrible moment, but… She tugged harder on Grace, forcing her to walk in front of her.
And since her sister’s arm was still around the child’s shoulders, the movement brought the child into view, as well.
Dorothy stepped away from Marcus, rested her hands on the child’s thin shoulders, and turned the urchin to face him.
Chapter Fifteen
Marcus frowned at the sight of Dorothy’s hands resting on the filthy jacket covering the shoulders of a grimy-faced orphan. Unpleasant and very earthy odors swirled around them.
Then the child tilted her head back and looked up at him.
One blue eye and one amber sparkled in the lamplight of the hallway. Light-headed with relief, he opened his mouth, but he could find no words.
The child abruptly turned and buried her face in Dorothy’s skirt.
“Cynthia!” he ground out at last. He held out a hand, but the child clung even more tightly to Dorothy, flashing a single glance at him. “Cynthia,” he said more gently. “I am your uncle—Uncle Marcus. Do you not recognize me?”
Grace looped one arm around Dorothy’s neck and placed the other next to Dorothy’s hand on the child’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “She is shy and has had a terrible shock. We all have.”
“But why fear me?” He studied the child’s stiff back. Getting down on one knee, he tried to pry her away from Dorothy to face him. She turned, but kept hold of Dorothy’s wide skirt and used it as a curtain to hide behind. Only her oddly colored eyes peered at him above the heavy fabric. “Why did you not come to me? Or go to the Watch? Why did you run away?”
Dorothy and Grace exchanged glances. Dorothy cleared her throat and flushed. “We asked her—you must give her time. She has been desperately afraid—you must be patient.”
“But surely she knew,” Marcus said in a strained voice. “She must have known I would never hurt her, that I would protect her from whatever she feared.”
“You must be patient.” Dorothy gazed at him imploringly. “She witnessed what happened.” Dorothy’s voice fell, straining and stumbling over the words and terrible images they evoked. “Cyril strangled her mother and then saw her—that is, he saw Cynthia and grabbed her. He threw her into the river. Only the sheerest bit of luck kept her from drowning. She could swim, you know.”
“I know—I was the one who taught her.” Marcus’s chest burned with anguish as he stared at the child.
She leaned against Dorothy, her face hidden in Dorothy’s skirt.
Dorothy gave the girl’s delicate shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Somehow, she made it to shore, but I imagine she was in shock and hardly knew what to do. Well, what would you have done? She didn’t know why he killed her parents, didn’t know if anyone would believe her, so she did the best she could.”
Marcus raked a hand through his hair, his gaze roving over the child. He ached with anguished tension. “If she’d only gone to the local constable, I’d have come for her.”
“She thought no one would believe her,” Dorothy repeated. She reached over to give his forearm a sympathetic squeeze.
His mouth twisted bitterly. “With good reason, I suppose. She always did like to make up a good story and embellish it with the most outlandish details. I suppose she thought no one would believe her this time, either.” He knelt again and gently touched her shoulder. “Though I assure you, we would have. I would have.”
Cynthia jerked her shoulder away.
A sense of loss enveloped him. She didn’t trust him, even now. With a sigh, he stood.
“Give her time—please!” Dorothy said.
“Of course.” His voice was cool. Distant. His emotions were well under control now, despite his wife’s concerned glances.
After a moment, Dorothy looked around at the other strained, white faces. Her aunt and cousins were huddled together by the dining room door. Mary and the girls were sobbing hopelessly while Stephen kept blinking and swallowing, his mouth trembling.
“I…” Dorothy cleared her throat. “We must send for the authorities—but what are we to say?” Her gaze went to her uncle’s body, crumpled on the marble floor. She blanched. “Must we say what happened?” She gazed at Marcus. “Must we say he was a murderer? Or that he killed himself?”
A loud moan broke from Mary.
“I am afraid it is rather obvious,” Gaunt said, studying her with sympathy.
“Couldn’t he have been cleaning the pistol?” Dorothy asked quickly.
“In the hallway?” Marcus’s voice was all bitter, sharp edges.
Dorothy’s chin rose. “He fell, then. Slipped on the marble while he was carrying the pistol. His grip tightened—as it would, would it not? And it went off as he was falling.”
“I am sorry, Lady Arundell.” Gaunt shook his head. “But there remains the open inquiry into the deaths of the previous Lord Arundell and his wife.”
“What of it?” She stared at him. “There must be dozens of open inquires and unsolved cases. We know it is no longer a mystery. That is all that matters, is it not? What can be gained from besmirching my uncle’s name and reputation? He had children.” She gestured to her aunt and cousins. “What are they to do? The children of a murderer? What possible good can come from ruining their lives, too?”
“Justice,” Marcus grunted.
“Justice?” Dorothy’s gaze flew to his face. “Where is the justice in that? My uncle has already paid for his misdeeds—he is dead. You can not ask for more than that.”
“He died for his own convenience—not for the sake of justice,” Marcus pointed out cynically. He thrust his hand through his hair again and studied her with unreadable eyes.
“Maybe so, but you cannot—no one can—blame my aunt. Or my cousins. They are not at fault. They had nothing to do with this.”
His gaze drifted from her face to the remnants of the Polkinghorne family. They were a miserable lot. Pity flickered within him, riding on a sense of resignation. What good had come from any of this?
Other than finding Cynthia. And she wanted nothing more to do with him, despite his efforts on her behalf.
Finally, he shrugged. “As you wish, Lady Arundell.” His formal use of her new title set her on his side, at least.
The matter was settled, but at what cost?
Chapter Sixteen
Dorothy’s stomach sank as she studied her husband. What had happened? She could only conclude that her defense of her uncle and his family had a
ngered or disappointed Marcus. It must have seemed as if she had taken the other side—the side of a murderer—against him.
Perhaps he even thought that she had flirted with her uncle and encouraged his attentions. Revulsion swept through her at the thought. If she had known what her uncle thought, she would have put an end to it as completely and swiftly as she could.
But it explained so much. Poor Aunt Mary must have been sick with jealousy and desperate to be rid of Dorothy, while her husband worked to achieve precisely the opposite goal. And then there was their bedroom. During their previous visit, they’d been relegated to the top floor where the servants resided. Dorothy had been surprised when they’d been given Cecilia’s lovely room this time. No doubt, the work of Uncle Cyril.
At least he had seemed content to bide his time, presumably until Grace married. When her younger sister left, Dorothy would have been quite alone.
She shivered.
The small of her back where Marcus had previously rested his hand suddenly felt icy cold, bereft of his warm touch. She pulled Cynthia more tightly against her, finding comfort in the child’s tight grip.
“Then… What are we to say about this tragedy? We must have an agreement,” Grace pointed out, stepping around Dorothy and Cynthia.
“Say whatever you wish,” Marcus suggested with scarcely a glance at her.
“That is not good enough!” Grace declared, her hands fisted at her sides. “As you are well aware.” She looked at Dorothy, her gaze pleading for support.
Dorothy sighed and straightened, her hands resting on Cynthia’s shoulders. “As I suggested, we shall say he was carrying his pistol to the library to clean it after supper. He slipped on the marble, and it accidentally went off.”
“I am afraid there is still the matter of the late Lord Arundell and his wife,” Mr. Gaunt said. “The case is open.”
“We will treat it separately,” Dorothy replied. “We will speak to a magistrate privately. Surely, we can explain matters and have the case closed. There must be a way to seal it so that it need never be made public.”
Mr. Gaunt’s gaze flickered to Marcus’s hard face before he nodded. “I have the honor to dine occasionally with Sir John Patterson, one of the Justices of His Majesty’s Court. He is a fair man. I have no doubt he will understand the situation.”
“Thank—” Dorothy broke off and glanced at her husband. They must approve Mr. Gaunt’s suggestion together if it was to provide a satisfactory conclusion to the case that so intimately involved Marcus.
He studied her for a long minute with unreadable eyes before he said, “Very well. Now we must send for the constable.” He looked at the cluster of weeping women huddled by the dining room door and added, “And send for a physician, as well. One seems to be required.”
All too soon, a wiry, rough-looking constable arrived, followed closely by the physician routinely used by Aunt Mary.
In short phrases, broken by wracking sobs, Aunt Mary reported that her husband had had an accident with his pistol. Everyone else supported her, and since the weapon was still clutched by the deceased, the tale was accepted. Mrs. Jolly gently covered the body with a sheet, and with the assistance of Elsa and the cook, they carried away the pitiful remains.
Despite Dorothy’s pleas, Grace elected to remain in the Polkinghorne townhouse. She would be needed there, she insisted, and Dorothy felt too overwhelmed by everything that had happened to argue.
Two hours later, Dorothy and Cynthia were sitting in a coach across from Marcus. Her husband. Night had well and truly fallen, and the lamplighters were busy bringing a few rays of golden light to fight with the shadows on the teeming streets. Carriages rattled past, and snatches of laughter floated through the windows. It seemed incomprehensible that there should be so much raucous life filling London after everything that had happened. Dorothy stared out of the windows, her hands twisting in her lap.
The trip to Arundell House was brief—too brief—and before she had a chance to protest, a young maid took charge of Cynthia. She led the child away to a hot bath and a meal, chattering brightly the entire time.
“Would you join me in the library?” Marcus asked, his strong fingers gripping Dorothy’s elbow.
Without waiting for her reply, he guided her down the wide hallway to the library—an altogether grander affair than the stuffy one at the Polkinghorne residence. Along three walls, bookcases rose from floor to ceiling. Mahogany ladders with brass fittings could be moved along rails to reach the upper shelves, and a multitude of books, bound with brown, green, blue, and red leather, filled the shelves. Not a space was empty—in fact, the shelves were so well-filled that some books lay horizontally on the tops of other books in an effort to squeeze in more volumes.
No fire burned in the fireplace, but several lamps had been lit on a variety of small tables, giving the room a mellow, welcoming look. Columns framed the door and windows, thick rugs covered the floor, and a few fragile porcelain vases, holding fresh roses, had been strategically placed. The light rose fragrance mingled with the scent of leather and a lingering smokiness from past fires, to enrich the comforting atmosphere.
Despite the soothing appeal of the room, Dorothy could not relax. Her fingers twisted together. She could not read Marcus’s expression—his face was too well-shuttered. He released her and strode to the fireplace, to stare down into its black, cavernous depth.
“I must apologize,” he said at last. His voice was so carefully modulated that she could read no emotion in it at all. “It seems days ago, and yet it was just this morning that you were wed and then abandoned.”
Her hands knotted more tightly together. That I was wed? We were wed… “It was unavoidable,” she replied in a soft voice. Her eyes searched his face, but she could only see his profile, lit fitfully by the lamp on the mantle.
“Yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Nonetheless, you must be wishing me to the very devil.”
“No—not at all!” Hand outstretched, she took a step forward, but the tension stiffening his shoulders held her at bay.
“And I owe you and your sister a great deal for finding my niece and bringing her home safely.”
“You owe us nothing, my lord—Marcus.” She laughed lightly, though it cost her a great deal to do so. “Grace was only trying to do a good deed.”
“A good deed.” A bitter chuckle escaped him. “Well, I owe both of you a debt I cannot repay.”
“Nonsense. There is no debt. I am simply relieved we found Cynthia alive and well.”
He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes blazing before bleakness quenched the light. His jaw tightened. “Which brings me to the matter at hand. It is clear that you can not wish to be married to one such as myself, and I will not force my attentions on an unwilling woman.” He laughed harshly. “I suppose it is understandable. Even my niece would prefer to be elsewhere. Given the circumstances, I can hardly blame you if you wish to have this marriage annulled—no one would blame you. Therefore, you may consider yourself released from any and all debts and obligations. I will make the arrangements for the annulment tomorrow. It is simply a shame that your sister could not accompany us this evening. She could have provided you with a chaperone.”
Staring at him, a terrible chasm yawned at her feet. Dorothy crossed her arms and gripped her elbows. She could not—would not—accept such a terrible decision. Her pulse quickened. He had spoken no word of love to her. In fact, he appeared to have no feelings for her whatsoever, given his behavior.
And yet, she loved him. She took a deep breath.
For once, she would be the one with the courage. She would step forward and say what needed to be said. “That is all very fine and well, but I do not need a chaperone. I have no wish to be released.”
He turned and looked at her, deep emotion flaring in his eyes before his expression grew remote. Controlled. Again, his jaw tightened. The hand he had laid so casually on the marble mantle clenched. “So. Does the title mean that much
to you, then?”
“Title? I care nothing for your title. It is obviously going to be nothing but a frightful nuisance. No. I refuse to release you from this marriage because I cannot let you go.” Her throat closed painfully. She swallowed and lifted her chin. “I love you, not the earldom. Though I don’t know how I am to prove such a thing if you are too stubborn to listen to me.”
Golden gleams lit his eyes as he strode across the floor to her. He gripped her arms and pulled her closer, searching her face hungrily. He gave her a gentle shake. “You love me? How can you?”
She laughed and placed her hands against his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palms. “I have been asking myself the very same question. There is no answer, I’m afraid, except that I do.”
“You scarcely know me—”
“And you scarcely know me. So I am perfectly well aware that you most likely do not return my affection—”
“Return your affection?!” An exasperated smile twisted his mouth. His eyes twinkled. “I have thought of little else—”
