by Allegra Gray
“I’ll bet,” Charity managed, before the lump that had settled in her throat when Graeme left choked off her words.
“He was supposed to stay this time,” Nate mumbled, looking at the ground rather than her.
Tears welled in her eyes as a fresh wave of guilt assailed her. It was her fault he’d been abandoned again, even if Nathan didn’t know it. She stooped to wrap her arm around his thin shoulders in a hug. To her surprise, the little boy didn’t pull back, but turned in to receive her hug more fully. She knelt, wrapped both arms around him and gave a squeeze. “I know. He’s an important man, your uncle. He has many responsibilities to oversee.”
He drew back and gave her a look that was way too old for his seven years. “People always leave.”
Her heart ached for him. For herself. Even for Graeme. The melancholy threatened to drag her under if she only let it.
“Mrs. Saxonberry says I’m to have a new governess,” Nate offered. “Uncle Graeme sent word. Do you think she’ll be nice?”
“I’m sure your uncle wouldn’t hire a governess who wasn’t.”
He looked skeptical. “Governesses don’t seem to like it here much. But mayhap she can teach me some new games before she leaves.”
The poor woman had been dismissed before she’d ever arrived. Nate must have seen quite a stream of them come and go to be that nonchalant about it.
Something told her this little boy needed her as badly as she needed him—all comments about unfit mothers aside. She thought for a minute, then stood and brushed off her skirts. “How about you and I play hide and seek? I used to be quite good at it, actually.”
He eyed her doubtfully. “You?”
Charity reached deep and summoned a smile. “Try me.”
Jasper Morton was well on the way to forgetting the past, and to the past forgetting him, until he trundled into the local inn one evening for supper and found the whole establishment chattering excitedly about the comely new lass in town.
“Evenin,’ Munro.” The innkeeper greeted him, as he did each and every patron.
Jasper silently chortled as he made for his usual spot along the wall, close enough to the fire to be on the fringes of conversation, but not in the thick of it. His one last theft—before he’d resigned himself to a life of legitimate labor—had been to burglarize a church registry. He’d stolen the birth record and matching death certificate of a baby born the same year as himself. Then he’d burned the death certificate.
He was now Willard Munro. It was the smartest move he’d ever made. The best part was that the real Willard Munro had died twenty-odd years ago, before ever even learning to speak his own name. Absolutely no one would be looking for him.
He accepted the mug of ale the innkeeper brought over, leaning back against the wall until the wooden legs of his stool tipped up. The conversation swirled around him.
The new lass, it turned out, was not really a lass. She was a lady. And she was not really in town. She was at Leventhal House, the family seat of the Earl of Leventhal, having recently married the earl himself.
Normally Jasper did not trouble himself with such matters. The nobility moved in circles quite removed from his own—except in rare instances.
“From London, she is,” one of the patrons affirmed.
“Don’ know why his lordship ‘ad to go all the way to London to find himself a mate,” one of the women grumbled.
“Ach, Bessie, mos’ every lord does that. Besides, she’s right pretty to look at, to hear tell.”
“O’ course she is. Lord Maxwell is a handsome one, and not one o’ them lords what gambled all their lands and fortunes away three generations ago, still hangin’ on to a title.”
“What about his wife? Is she of noble blood as well?”
Another woman jumped in. “Aye, indeed. But her pa was only a baron.”
Jasper snorted into his ale. Only a baron. Like any of them had ever even dreamt of holding such rank.
“That’s right, that’s right. Baron Medford. Died a few years’ back, though.”
“You think Lady Charity will stay, then?”
The woman called Bessie giggled. “If Lord Maxwell gets her in the family way, I ‘magine she’ll stay.”
The voices dimmed as the ringing in Jasper’s ears took over. Medford. No. No bloody way. The one time in recent years that his path had crossed with that of the nobility, it had led to the unfortunate kidnapping of one Charity Medford. The only unmarried daughter of the late Baron Medford.
Apparently, she was no longer unmarried.
Nor was she dead. He’d rather thought she was dead. Lucky little bitch.
Jasper pondered his mug of ale. Even with a new identity, Miss Medford—or rather, Lady Charity Maxwell—was now too close for comfort. As Willard Munro, he kept mostly to himself, but a man still had to work, still had to eat. There was no guarantee he could keep from crossing her path.
Bloody woman. He’d consigned himself to a life lived at the edge of civilization, and he still couldn’t get away. If she saw him, it would take only one word to her husband or her ducal brother-in-law, and he was done for.
A fruit fly buzzed over and landed on the edge of his mug. He brushed it off, but the blasted thing flew right into the ale. If Jasper had been a superstitious man, he’d have taken that as a sign. Was he, like the fly, in over his head?
As it was, Jasper was not superstitious. Nor was he especially picky. He hefted the mug and took a long swallow. This was not the life he’d once dreamed of. He’d grown up among the dredges of society. Pickpockets, gamblers, light skirts…they were the fabric of his childhood neighborhood. But he’d always thought better luck was around the corner.
If he just lifted the right purse, or paid a favor for the right patron, he’d be done with all of this. He’d take his little windfall and move far away, to a house in a town somewhere where the townspeople saw loose floorboards as a problem to be fixed—not a convenient place to store coins so they wouldn’t be stolen.
Only his luck never turned. And one job led to the next, until here he was. A wanted man.
Jasper cast a baleful eye at his mug. Seeing no sign of the fruit fly, he tipped it up and downed the contents.
Chapter 14:
Blessed are they who yet find hope in the darkest of days…
Ismay Boyd got her first taste of Charity’s “nightmares” at the end of her first week of employment, just two nights after the arrival of Nathan’s new governess.
A bloodcurdling scream awakened Ismay. Always a light sleeper, she jumped from bed, throwing open the door that connected her room with Lady Charity’s. Running footsteps sounded outside the door. She cracked it open and thrust out her head to see the white-faced governess, whose own arrival had been just two days before. She must have sprinted all the way from the other wing. “Go back to bed. ‘Twas only a spider. A great, hairy one, to be sure, but ‘tis quite dead now.”
She slammed the door. She’d promised to protect her mistress’s secret, and she would.
Moonlight flooded the chamber with a bright, otherworldly glow.
Lady Charity stood at the open window, her halo of blond hair floating about her as she muttered about an escape plan. She was worried the window was too high to jump.
Calmly, Ismay approached her.
“No! No, don’t come any closer!”
Ismay reached for the glass of water Lady Charity kept near her bed. She could fling it at her to startle her from her reverie…but that might make things worse. Slowly, never taking her eyes off her mistress, she took a sip. Then another.
The movement, so very normal, had the desired effect.
“Wait. What are you doing? That’s my water. Why are you…”
Ismay saw the flare of recognition.
“Miss Boyd?” A shudder ran the length of the young noblewoman’s body. She staggered toward the chaise and collapsed.
When the shaking subsided, Ismay sat down next to Charity, who was curled in a b
all on the chaise.
Charity felt the other woman’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
“I suppose now you understand why you were hired,” she said tiredly. She’d been battling these demons so long, she was starting to wonder if she’d ever actually beat them.
“When that happens, do you know what causes it? Or what frightens you so? Or does it just…come upon you?” Ismay asked. There was no censure in her tone, only curiosity.
“I know.” Oh, did she ever.
“Do ye want to tell me about it, my lady?” Ismay asked gently. “Sometimes it helps to talk to someone.”
Charity tugged her hair. She was desperate to have someone finally understand. She’d wanted that someone to be Graeme. But she’d scared him off too soon. Then again, he was the one who’d sent the nurse to her, and Miss Boyd did have a way about her that made people naturally trust her. “The doctor says it would be better to forget. Speaking of it just means I’m dwelling on it.”
Ismay nodded sagely. “Does he, now. I have no’ the training of a doctor. Mayhap he knows best.”
“But I can’t forget,” Charity blurted. “I’ve tried, and tried, and I always fail.”
Ismay was quiet a moment. “Mmm. I can’t tell you what to do, my lady. I can’t even promise talking will help. But I have two good ears. If you decide you want to, I can promise I won’t judge you.”
The thick fear that had so long imprisoned her began to dissolve as Charity gave up fighting and took what the other woman offered. She spoke slowly, worrying the end of one ringlet between her fingers as she searched for the words she had to get out. “Something really bad happened. Afterward, everything in my life was…different. I tried to go on like things were the same, but it all fell apart. Things were the same. It was me that was different.”
She knew Ismay Boyd had to be utterly confused, but to the woman’s credit, she only waited as Charity worked up the courage to get more specific. These words could damn her. She had to get them out anyway. Bottled inside, they were already damning her. They were turning her into the creature of madness she was fighting so hard not to be.
“Last year, I did something foolish. Utterly stupid. My friend, Lady Beatrice Pullington, and I got caught up in an intrigue. A group of French informants had infiltrated London, trying to harness any knowledge that would keep General Bonaparte from his ultimate defeat.”
“They did not succeed.”
“No. They did not. But Bea and I overheard them making plans. When we realized what we’d heard, we told the authorities. They were most impressed, especially with Bea, for she was the one who deciphered their code.” She sighed, uncurling slowly from her ball. “She’d thought it a lover’s note. A harmless mystery. We had no idea what we were getting into. After we told the authorities, I should have forgotten all about it, and gone on with enjoying my first Season.” She smiled. “I had quite a few suitors.”
“Of course you did, my lady. You are so lovely.”
“You needn’t flatter me, but thank you. My point is, I didn’t stop there. I wanted to keep helping. I wanted people to think I was clever, too, like Bea. Those men were still on the loose, so I did some spying of my own. As I said, foolish. They caught me.”
She hardly registered Ismay’s soft gasp.
“They held me captive for, oh, I don’t know. It wasn’t very long, really, but it felt like an age.” She gripped the chaise, her fingers digging into the cushioning. “I was so scared.”
“They harmed you.” Ismay took one of Charity’s hands in her own.
Charity made a frustrated gesture with the other. “The doctor who examined me afterward proclaimed me unharmed.” Sarcasm laced her tone. “What else would he say, with the Duke of Beaufort hovering anxiously in the next room?”
Ismay thought about that. Her expression said she didn’t give much credence to the doctor’s opinion, either.
“Did they…forgive me, my lady. Did they force themselves on you?”
Charity was quiet a long moment. “I don’t know,” she answered finally. “I was bound and gagged, and forced to drink something that knocked me unconscious. I don’t know how long I was out, or what happened then. I—I don’t think they raped me. My dress was torn, and I had many bruises, but…I don’t think so. I awoke only shortly before the men were tipped off. They knew the authorities were after them. We’d been hiding in an old warehouse. They abandoned it like rats jumping from a sinking ship. But I was a problem. Their leader wasn’t going to let anything slow him down. He directed the one of lowest rank to take care of it. Of me. The building had a cellar. Just a dirt hole. Very damp, being so near the docks. He dumped me there. Barred me in. And then he left me there, but not before he had his bit of fun.” The vile words spilled out, picking up speed until they formed a torrent, washing over her, tearing at her with their power. Ismay Boyd kept hold of her hand, never letting go, providing an anchor to keep the torrent from sweeping her away.
“‘Men like me, we don’t often get the chance at a pretty set o’ skirts like you,’ he said,” she repeated, the words burned into her memory like a scar.
“He touched me. Squeezed so hard it hurt. But he…” Oh God, oh God, how do I say this. Just the memories made her stomach churn. “It excited him too much, having this power over me. He hit me, forced me down. He tossed up my skirts, but before he could…complete the act, he, uh, finished.” She ducked her head, expecting the piercing shame to choke off her words again. But, after a few shaky breaths, she kept going. “The last thing he did was leave me a parting gift. A tiny vial, marked with skull and crossbones. I saw the markings in the light of his lantern. Then he locked me in, taking the light with him.”
Ismay’s brows knitted. “Poison?”
“Yes. An insidious act of mercy. I could end my own life, if I chose, or wait for natural death in the deep darkness.”
“Dear God,” Ismay whispered.
“I was so angry, I flung it away. Not because I had faith I would survive. Just anger.”
The nurse’s expression, as promised, betrayed no judgment.
Relieved, Charity continued. “I thought I would die down there. It was so utterly black. No light penetrated at all. I screamed and screamed until I hadn’t any voice left, but no one came. I felt the walls, the door, finding my way by touch, trying not to guess what little objects the toes of my slippers came into contact with. I felt for any means of escape. A loose board, another door. There was nothing but walls of clay and the single, barred door.
“I couldn’t give up, not even then. I tried beating on the door, clawing at the walls. Nothing happened. The door was thick, but wood. I thought maybe, if I couldn’t claw a tunnel through the walls, I could get past the door. I used my hairpins until they all bent and broke. Then my fingertips, until the nails and skin wore off and they bled. Still I kept at it, until the pain was too great.
“I knew that was the end. I had nothing left. No one would know where to find me. No one would hear me. I paced the length of that prison. Six in length, four across. Six, then four. Again, and again. I lost track of time. I might have slept—I don’t know.
“At some point, I found myself just sitting on the dank ground. That’s when I realized I’d been wrong. I did have one thing left—if I could find it.”
“The poison,” her nurse whispered.
Charity lowered her eyes, acknowledging the truth. “It shames me to know I sank so low. That I crept on hands and knees, searching for the hated thing I’d so casually thrown away.”
“What happened?” Ismay held a hand to her heart.
“I found it, eventually. When I’d flung it and it landed, the stopper must have come loose. Most of the contents had leached into the ground.” She paused. “To this day I don’t know if, had that not happened, I might have taken the poison. As it was, my careless arrogance saved me. Because now I had another thought. If I broke the vial, the glass might succeed in carving through the door where my hairpins and fi
ngernails had failed.”
“Clever, and brave,” Ismay murmured.
She laughed bitterly. “Do you know, that bloody vial was nearly shatterproof? I stomped on it, beat it against the wall, even bit it. Finally the curved lip at the top broke off, leaving a sharp edge. I took to the door again. It felt like I was making progress. I’m sure by then I was delusional, desperate. But I could feel a groove, feel it getting deeper. Of course, I was going to need far more than a groove to get free, but it was something. Until it shattered. I worked so hard to get one little piece to break off, and then it just fell apart, tiny slivers of glass penetrating my bloodied fingertips. It hurt so badly. I’m sure traces of the poison were still there…maybe that’s why. I hadn’t even realized that until now. I kept going, using the biggest slivers to do whatever I could, which amounted to nothing, until sheer exhaustion overtook me.”
“My God,” Ismay said, still in a whisper.
“I should have had more faith. Alex, that’s my sister’s husband, the Duke of Beaufort, and Lady Pullington’s husband—though this was before they were married—found me after all. They brought me home, fetched the doctor, and hired guards to protect me until they caught all those men. And then we tried to put ‘the incident’ behind us.”
“Oh, my lady, how could you?”
Charity gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Do you know, I thought at first that I could? That after a few days, my fingers would heal, the criminals would all have been caught, and I would go back to dance the waltz at Almack’s and preen whenever I overheard someone refer to me as ‘a diamond of the first water.’” She swallowed. “Things did not work out the way I had planned. Strange things would happen. Some days I was fine. Others, it all came rushing back to me, like I was in that dark hole again, with no way out. I began to have trouble sleeping. I began fearing crowds. Developing odd little habits, precautions that probably did nothing but somehow made me feel better. I would think I was getting better, and then some little thing—something others might not even notice—would set me off.”
