The only indication of Mr. Ripper’s arrival was the rhythmic tapping of his cane against the cobblestone. Josiah turned to see the man who haunted his nightmares. The deep, jagged scar that ran diagonally from the right temple to the lower end of his jaw was nauseating. He stared into the murky depths of Mr. Ripper’s milky-white left eye and swallowed the fear that crawled up from his gut.
Josiah’s voice stammered, “Mr. Ripper. M’ Glad ya’ came…”
The harsh, broken rasps of the other man’s voice sounded painful, as though each breath was torn from his chest against his will. “I wanted you to finally…look…upon the face of the man…you owe…so much. Could not…trust…anyone else with this…Josiah. A…blood…debt-”
“Must be paid in full. Aye, sire. I understand.” By now Josiah had begun to tremble violently in cowardly fear.
“Then…you…understand that your…precious little…Honey Bee…belongs to the London underground,” Mr. Ripper groaned before coughing wretchedly. “And…her…King.”
“No, please!” Josiah begged. “I’ll do anythin’, sire.”
“Then…transport the…contraband on the list. Or…your daughter…is mine, Josiah. No…more…mistakes.”
The importation of illegal goods into London would surely result in a hanging or some other form of execution. It would be an act of piracy at the very least, if not treason against the crown. Mr. Ripper wanted him to not only pilfer supplies from the fleet, but also transport banned weaponries and other less-than-legal shipments into the city that were not on his ledger. “C-could ya’ no’ simply purchase another ship?”
Mr. Ripper tilted his head and twisted that scarred mouth into a grotesque sneer that caused Josiah to flinch away as he stepped closer. “No…other ship…can get close enough…to the fleet. Do not…forget that…I have men…stationed around…my city. If you dare to…attempt…to betray me…Josiah Haddington, I will…not hesitate…to stain the streets…with your…blood.”
Mr. Ripper’s words hissed through his tightly clenched teeth as his jaw twitched with the effort it took to issue the threat. Three men emerged from the darkness to stand beside their king. They were well-dressed gentlemen with clipped, refined accents who walked with a swagger that matched Mr. Ripper’s own arrogant stride.
“Louis will be trusted…to watch…over your progress, Josiah. But…Lord Solomon Dunn and his wife, Lady Pricilla Dunn…will…watch over…your Honey Bee…until…your debt…is paid.” Just then, a beautiful woman tucked her hand in the crook of Solomon’s elbow. She emanated beauty and sophistication.
Lady Pricilla Dunn and her husband no doubt held connections with the esteemed members of higher society. Which meant that she would have little difficulty locating Beatrice during her stay in Winchester. Josiah had known better than to offer his own daughter as payment, there had been a young girl in Mr. Ripper’s gang who had warned him.
Josiah had not heeded her warning. Instead, he agreed that if he could not pay his debt in full by her twentieth birthday, she would belong to the London underground. It sickened him how Mr. Ripper used Josiah’s wife’s silly name for his daughter against him.
“Beatrice is innocent in all of this. She never did nothin’ wrong ‘er entire life, sire. I beg o’ ya’, please.”
Lady Dunn stepped forward and dabbed away the sweat on his greasy skin with a small, soft piece of fabric. Her smile was kind, but her eyes held no soul in their depths. Lady Dunn chuckled darkly, “She deserves a better father than you and a better life than you have given her. With us, she will have a family. Loyal to the very end, birds of a feather.”
Josiah slumped forward in defeat. The smell of fish and oil clinging to his clothing as thick clouds of black smoke covered the light of the moon. He sniffled pathetically and nodded his head. “Aye. I will do as ya’ wish, sire.”
Lady Dunn returned to her husband’s side, quite pleased with her ability to break a man down to nothing with just a touch and a few careful words. Josiah dropped to his knees and wept as Mr. Ripper and his underlings sauntered down the streets of London. The King of London’s distorted, repulsive face whistled in the night with not a care in the world.
Oh, Beatrice. What have I done? Josiah felt the heartbreak only a father could know. It pummeled him into the ground.
***
Beatrice awoke before the sun. She stretched high above her head and looked about at the sparse interior of her new quarters. Marina would most likely disapprove, but Beatrice was more than happy to stay in the same wing as the other servants. She pulled back the small curtain on the only window carved into the wall, allowing the scent of the dewy morning grass to flow inside as she opened the shutters.
She tugged on her threadbare dress, tidied her hair beneath a cap, and pushed her feet into a pair of slippers. Beatrice tied an apron about her waist and shuffled out of her bedchamber. She was, of course, the first to rise within the household. Many of the servants she had spoken to informed Beatrice that only the scullery maids were required to rise before dawn. She waved away their words as well as their insistence that she wear the identical dress that all maids working in the manor wore.
Beatrice did not wish to owe the Earl anymore than she already did. No matter how many times Mrs. Buxton assured her that she would work for fair wages and provisions, Beatrice still felt as though she was indebted to them. The floors creaked slightly beneath her feet as she shuffled towards the kitchen.
She lit a lantern and prepared a serving of tea as well as a few breads, fruits, and cheeses onto a platter. Beatrice then carried the rattling tray through the corridor, up the staircase, and just outside of Lady Ruteledge’s chambers. A soft knock resulted in no answer, so Beatrice entered quietly, careful not to wake the drowsy figure curled on her side on the bed. The tray was discarded onto the tea table beside the settee that sat beneath the large window at the east end of the room. Beatrice marveled at the ornate patterned walls. Antique furnishings adorned every corner, indicative of the collective wealth.
Beatrice had learned from Mrs. Buxton that Lady Ruteledge preferred to rise with the morning sun, so she flicked open the draperies. The sun was just rising over the hilltops in the distance. She stoked the fire, feeling the draft within the room, knowing it could cause Lady Ruteledge’s condition to worsen.
A chair was pulled beside the bed and Beatrice sat down to read until the noblewoman woke of her own accord. She flicked through the pages of a wondrous tale of knights and damsels of the old kingdoms. Beatrice had been so lost in the story that she had not noticed the hazel eyes regarding her with adamant curiosity. It was the weak cough that tore her gaze from the book.
Beatrice smiled at Lady Ruteledge and stood to reposition the noblewoman onto her pillows so that she sat upright against the beautifully carved headboard. The sound of rain began to batter against the window as she retrieved the tray and gently handed Lady Ruteledge a hot cup of tea. She received a grateful pat atop her hand and a generous smile.
“It must be quite dreary alone in here, My Lady,” Beatrice observed bravely, understanding that Lady Ruteledge would not take kindly to being coddled. “Mrs. Buxton informed me of your schedule. But if it is not too forward of me, I thought we could rearrange things a bit.”
“What did you have in mind, Miss Haddington?”
“Please, call me Beatrice, My Lady,” she insisted, wanting to be a friend as well as a caretaker to the lady of the household. “We could sit here for a while, gather our wits in these unholy hours and then enjoy some quiet in the library.”
Her words startled a laugh out of Lady Ruteledge and Beatrice took pride in her ability to humor the other woman.
“That sounds delightful, Beatrice. I would like to finish my painting over there at some time this afternoon as well.” Lady Ruteledge began to nibble at the small bits of food on the tray, breaking her morning fast in the privacy of her own quarters.
Beatrice knew there must be some part of the noblewoman who did not see t
he fatality of her condition. There was hope hidden amongst the pain and irritation in her eyes. Perhaps Lady Ruteledge wanted to hold on for her son and nothing more, but if there were any parts of her that wanted to fight her illness, Beatrice would help them flourish. Her own mother gave up well before her sickness had consumed her. The fact that Beatrice’s existence was not enough to inspire her mother to keep fighting brought her nothing but self-hatred.
Beatrice craned her neck to see the painting that sat propped up against the wall. It was a beautiful landscape of mountainous terrain and a wild, tangled forest beneath it. The Dowager Countess’s obvious talent astonished her.
A few hours later, Beatrice assisted Lady Ruteledge with her morning routine before they headed to the library. She felt a sense of accomplishment, as she convinced her charge to eat something more substantial than a few bites of bread. They walked slowly through the halls, arm in arm to help keep Lady Ruteledge upright.
Once they reached the library, Beatrice noticed Lord Ruteledge scanning the shelves of books. He paused when he caught sight of them and Beatrice helped Lady Ruteledge to the wingback chair near the fireplace. She folded a thick blanket and placed it over the noblewoman’s lap before she too approached the shelves. “Morning, Lord Ruteledge. Did you require any assistance in finding anything?” Beatrice asked, thoroughly avoiding his gaze.
***
James stared, jaw slackened by the ease in which Miss Haddington tended to his mother. Never before, not even with Mrs. Buxton, had his mother allowed a servant to make amendments to her schedule. “My Lord, is something wrong?”
“No-no, of course not.”
“Did you require my assistance?” she repeated.
James grabbed a random title from the shelves with a shake of his head, not wanting to give away what he had been doing in the library instead of associating with his guests. Miss Haddington grabbed a volume of collective poems and took a seat across from his mother. She toed off her slippers and tucked her feet beneath her in a very unladylike fashion.
He averted his gaze and took a seat near the back of the library where he could watch Miss Haddington’s exchanges with his mother. James told himself that it was to gauge her abilities and not so he could admire the elegant column of her neck as she read. A clap of thunder roared through the manor, causing him to drop his book as memories of cannon fire and rifles exploded in his mind.
Miss Haddington looked up from her book with a sympathetic expression moments before she turned away and began reading aloud. Both James and Helena Ruteledge set their own books aside to hear the tender voice of Miss Beatrice Haddington as she recited poem after poem, instilling a cloud of peace to engulf their weary senses.
Chapter Five
Ruteledge Estate
Winchester, England
Two weeks later, James clutched the soft, feather down pillow in a white-knuckled grip as he writhed on his bed. His jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ached as he attempted to suck large amounts of oxygen in through his nostrils. Less than a day’s growth of stubble graced his chin as heavy bags settled beneath his eyes. A tendril of blonde hair curled over his sweat-dampened forehead. The storm continued to shake the windows of his bedchamber, adding to the nightmare that warred within.
…The once peaceful fields were blackened from fire and the drying blood of fallen soldiers. Screams reverberated through the trenches as gunfire peppered the barricade beside him. James searched the battlefield for his dearest friend, Elias Turner. He knew the man’s passive beliefs would keep him from defending himself, so James had promised his friend’s mother that he would see him returned safely from battle….
Guilt and anger pained him as he scanned the area. This was not glory. This was not honor or devotion to crown and country; it was a terrifying onslaught that had stolen the lives of good men. Fire exploded in his shoulder…James jolted upright with his hand pressed above the scar that burned with a phantom pain. Breath tore from his heaving chest as he tried to calm himself. A sliver of light cut through the bedchamber. He squinted in the dark and turned his gaze toward the door in time to hear someone shuffle away.
James flung off his coverings and rushed to the door. His loose nightshirt came just above his ankles, tickling slightly as he walked. The sweaty skin of his chest was very clear through the open collar. His nightcap had fallen off in his fitful sleep and he forgot his banyan on the hook beside his bed. James peered through the crack in the door to find no one rushing through the corridor.
He turned back and grabbed his satin dressing gown that wrapped around his waist and reached the floor. James pulled it tight and wandered through the halls in search for Elias. When he found the door to his friend’s chamber, he paused. Although he wanted to reassure himself that he had indeed returned his friend to England safely, the demands of propriety caused him to hesitate. It would be inconsiderate to wake Elias so late in the night.
Just as he turned to head back to his own chambers, the door opened to allow him entrance. Elias looked as disheveled and exhausted as he. “Come in, my friend,” Elias grumbled.
James took a seat at the table in the corner and waited for Elias to don his own banyan. They sat quietly for a moment, both gentlemen flinching at the storm that shook the floor beneath their feet. It took a several more seconds before James was able to find his voice. “Is it the storm?”
“The memories, they come only with the rain. Faith! Just the thought of it can send me into madness. I just remember being trapped under the wall that fell and the water pooling around me, losing oxygen as the rain filled up…I-I would have drowned if it were not for you, James. I owe you my life…”
“You would have done the same for me,” James stated.
“But you had been injured more times than I could count, just to find me and fulfill your promise to my family.”
“You owe me nothing, Elias.”
“What kept you awake? Was it the storm as well?”
James waited before he answered, unsure of how his friend would react. “No, not particularly. I hardly ever sleep these days. Most of my time is spent wondering when I will be called to combat once more. The fear is…”
“Unbearable? Yes, I understand.”
And he did. Elias Turner was one of the few people who honestly understood the crippling terror that held him hostage. It was easy for others to celebrate the victories of war and never face the reality of so many lives that had paid the price. James eyed the bottle of brandy on the bedside table. Elias followed his gaze and retrieved it with a smirk, knowing all too well what the remainder of the night would bring.
“More guests arrive this afternoon?”
“Yes, Lord and Lady Dunn will arrive as well as Lord and Lady Lockhart. They will be staying for the duration of the weekend along with the other guests. A private ball will be hosted in October so that we may speak with His Grace further on your proposition. Please remember, Elias, that this is a danger for all of us,” James murmured as he swallowed the fine brandy, tasting the lingering notes of peach. “I care not of reputation, but the integrity of my title must be preserved.”
“Indeed. With Percival’s scandal still at the forefront, there is more of a need to be cautious than ever before.”
Yes: caution. Something he both lived by and despised all at once. James refilled his glass and topped off Elias’s as well before he settled back in his seat and the two gentlemen stared out at the storm; vulnerable in their fear, yet comforted by one another’s presence. A crash from down the hall worried them.
***
Beatrice allowed the tray to clatter to the floor as she rushed over and lifted Lady Ruteledge into her arms, strength she had acquired while assisting her father on his ship. It helped that Lady Ruteledge was frail and very light in her arms. Beatrice carried the Dowager Countess to her bed, pondering what had motivated the noblewoman to move through the manor on her own.
“Be still, My Lady,” she whispered as she lowered her onto the b
ed. Lady Ruteledge reached out and grasped her hand in an almost painful clutch. Beatrice squeezed her hand back, letting her know that she was not alone in her moment of pain. The door flew open furiously as the Earl stood just inside the room.
He smelled of brandy and the anger in his eyes caused Beatrice to pull away and attempt to fade into the wallpaper. The Marquess put a calming hand on the Earl’s shoulder as he noticed Lady Ruteledge reaching for Beatrice. Setting aside her panic, Beatrice returned to the bedside and pressed her cool palm to Lady Ruteledge’s brow.
The woman beneath her sighed through another wave of pain, pulling at Beatrice’s free hand to tangle their fingers together. Tears pricked Beatrice’s eyes, as she felt helpless, able to do no more than allow Lady Rutledge these small comforts in that moment. Beatrice began to hum quietly, feeling the droplets of her own cries fall to her cheeks.
“Why had she fallen on your watch, Miss Haddington?”
Beatrice started at the rough edge to Lord Ruteledge’s voice. “It is not yet dawn, My Lord. I had set about my morning chores before preparing a morning meal for Lady Ruteledge. I did not know she had awakened at such an early hour.”
She barely recognized the sounds that escaped her as she whimpered through the trepidation of being in such a close proximity to two men who had imbibed, gentlemen though they may be. “She had not fallen, My Lord. I was able to catch her and carry her to bed before she tumbled to the floor. The teacups and food on the platter can be taken from my wages to purchase replacements.”
The Earl's Envy (Scandalous Nobility Book 2) Page 3
