The Infamous Duchess

by Sophie Barnes

  She stared at him, her body poised between going up and coming down. She chose the latter, descending a step so they were at eye level. “Really?”

  He held the letter up for her to see. “I think we’ve got enough evidence here to have him convicted of murder.”

  Officer Ericson’s frown deepened as he scanned the letter Henry had handed him. He finally glanced up. “Bollocks.” He shifted his gaze to Viola. “I beg your pardon.”

  “No need,” she muttered.

  “It is just . . .” Ericson picked up the papers again and blew out an agonized breath. “Christ.”

  “I know,” Henry said, agreeing with his verdict. Robert was a duke, after all. The last time one had been tried and sentenced to death was when the Duke of Norfolk had been found guilty of treason in 1572, which was quite some time ago.

  “There’s no real precedent for this sort of thing,” Ericson said, mirroring Henry’s thoughts, “but we are speaking of murder. At the very least, there ought to be a thorough investigation and a trial.”

  “Do you believe we’ve enough evidence to have him convicted?” Viola asked.

  “The House of Lords will have to determine that, but Officer Marvis’s letter to you is pretty damning. Considering his claim that Officer Hoff who was asked to look into Beatrice Cartwright’s death was paid to list the cause as accidental, I don’t believe that the duke will be acquitted.”

  “Especially since Officer Hoff has been under investigation for a while now, after inconsistencies began appearing in his reports,” Viola pointed out.

  “And then of course there’s the snake Tremaine mentioned,” Henry said. “According to Marvis, there are no venomous snakes in Anguilla, and Hoff’s initial report suggested an accidental fall. But it’s possible Tremaine didn’t know this was deemed the cause of death. After all, he did leave almost immediately after the incident, which again doesn’t fit exactly with what he told me.”

  “There are certainly inconsistencies,” Ericson agreed, “and enough material to warrant a dialogue with Tremaine. I’ll dispatch a couple of officers straight away and keep you posted.” He picked the letter back up and shifted it slightly between his fingers. “May I keep this?”

  Henry nodded. “Certainly.”

  Viola stood, as did Henry. “Thank you, Officer. We look forward to seeing justice served, not only on behalf of Beatrice Cartwright, but on behalf of Olivia Jones as well.”

  Ericson nodded, and Henry escorted Viola out of the building.

  “I think that went rather well,” Viola said as soon as they were back in the street.

  “Agreed, but let’s not get our hopes up until we’re certain he’ll face charges.”

  She nodded and accepted the arm he offered. The Red Rose wasn’t far and neither was the rejuvenation center, so they decided to stop by both places to see how things were going before continuing on to Gunther’s, where they stopped for an ice.

  “Care for a game of cards?” Viola asked when they returned home that afternoon. They hadn’t played since Paris when he’d beat her three times in a row. She was itching to have her revenge.

  “All right. I’ll have one of the maids bring up some tea,” Henry said, already heading for the kitchen stairs. He rarely used the bellpull to summon the servants. In his opinion, it was more efficient for him to go to them instead of demanding they stop their chore, come upstairs to hear his request, only to return downstairs again to fulfill it.

  Viola rather agreed. She went to retrieve a deck of playing cards along with the box filled with all the counters they used for betting. A knock at the front door made her still. She waited briefly to see if Mr. Andrews would come to answer it, but when he didn’t, she supposed he must have gone out on an errand since he hadn’t come to assist when she and Henry had returned home either.

  Exiting the library, Viola went to open the door. As soon as it swung to one side, a boot lodged between the door and the frame. Then a gloved hand yanked the door out of her hands and opened it wide. She stumbled sideways, momentarily thrown off balance as Robert entered her home as if it were his.

  “Henry!” She aimed for a steady timbre, calling out his name as she backed away in the direction of the stairwell leading to the kitchen. Instead it wobbled, betraying her fear.

  “We need to have a little conversation,” Robert said as he peeled off each of his gloves and shoved them carelessly into his jacket pocket. “I don’t appreciate being slandered and accused of things I haven’t done.”

  “Robert. Listen. I—”

  “I’m the bloody Duke of Tremaine,” he shouted, “and you shall call me Your Grace or so help me I’ll—”

  “What?” Viola asked as the door behind her burst open and Henry stepped into the hallway. “Kill me as well?”

  Robert’s lips flattened into a grim line. “You go too far,” he said. “When I returned home half an hour ago I learned that the bloody Bow Street office is trying to bring me in for questioning. Findlay said it was in regards to my wife’s death and Olivia Jones’s murder, which leads me to suspect that you two decided to stir up things that don’t concern you. You’re the only people with any interest in causing me harm.”

  “You murdered those women,” Viola announced.

  Robert clenched his fists and advanced. Henry stepped in front of her, placing himself between her and Robert.

  “I’ll have you both charged with harassment,” Robert said.

  “A bit of a challenge for you, I’d think, considering you’ll be swinging from a rope soon,” Henry murmured.

  “You bastard.” Robert threw his fist into Henry’s jaw, knocking him back into Viola. She stumbled slightly, but managed to regain her balance and add some distance between herself and the men who were now fighting like bare-knuckle boxers keen to draw blood.

  “Stop it,” she cried, but neither man listened.

  “Get out of my house,” Henry growled as he placed a sharp jab above Robert’s right eye. The skin broke and blood trickled down the side of his face.

  “Not until I’ve given you the thrashing you deserve.” Robert rushed forward, jamming his head into Henry’s abdomen, throwing him back.

  Viola barely managed to get out of the way before they went down, landing with a thud on the floor. Robert leaned back and pinned Henry down with his body. A crack sounded as bone connected with bone, the knuckles on Robert’s right hand reddening further with each successive strike to Henry’s face.

  “No!” Viola flung herself at him.

  “Oh dear merciful God.” The exclamation came from one of the maids who must have heard the ruckus and come to see what was going on.

  “Go and fetch help,” Viola yelled, and the maid quickly complied.

  Viola latched on to Robert’s shoulders with her hands, desperate to make him stop hitting Henry, but her weight was too slight and he easily pushed her aside.

  Struggling to her feet, she made another attempt, pulling at his shoulders with all the strength she had in her. The effort allowed Henry to pull his hands free and place them around Robert’s neck. Robert roared in frustration. His elbow came back, hitting Viola in the chest. She fell back onto her bottom.

  A cry of outrage ricocheted off the walls. Viola shifted her weight. She had to stand—had to help Henry. Her feet found the floor and she pushed herself up, ignoring the dull ache in her chest. Something silver gleamed in the afternoon light. It moved smoothly through the air, elegant but deadly.

  Viola screamed as the blade went down with a clean stab to Henry’s chest. His agony filled the air as Robert retrieved the blade. Everything slowed, the world fell away and all Viola could see was time running out—the last grains of sand spilling through the hourglass—taking her future with Henry with it.

  Aware that she lacked the strength to overpower the madman before her, Viola sprinted toward Henry’s study. She flung his desk drawer open and grabbed the pistol he kept there. Panting, she hurried back into the hallway, arriving just in t
ime to see Robert prepare to stab Henry again.

  Without hesitation, she aimed the pistol with trained precision and drew a deep breath, steadying herself so she would not tremble.

  One shot. That was all she had. And she took it without even blinking as Robert’s hand came down once more. He stiffened and the blade fell to the floor with a clatter as Robert slumped awkwardly to the side. He gasped as he rolled back against the wall, clutching at his chest while trying to rise.

  Viola paid him no heed. She rushed toward Henry and tore his jacket and vest wide open. “You will survive this, my love,” she croaked as she pulled at his bloodstained shirt with quivering hands.

  Across from her, Robert leaned crookedly against the wall. His breaths were short and fast. “You’ve killed me.” The words came haltingly from his throat.

  Anger shoved pain and fear aside for a moment. “No, Robert. I’m not that kind.” Henry’s wound came into view and Viola’s lips wobbled as hot tears welled behind her eyes. When she spoke to Robert again, her words broke apart in anguish. “I want you to survive this so you can face the condemnation of your peers in court.”

  He flung his arm out toward her as if to attack, but it was a futile attempt as strength failed him this time. Choking back her emotion, Viola reminded herself to stay calm. Panicking wouldn’t help Henry right now, so she ripped his shirt with methodical movements, wiping the blood from his chest and adding pressure where it was needed.

  “Viola.” Her name was but a croak.

  “Hush now, my love.” She pressed one palm to his cheek. “You need to preserve your strength.”

  Seconds later, Viola heard voices and footsteps approaching and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Jesus,” a man’s voice exclaimed. He sounded vaguely familiar, and when she looked up, she recognized him as the Earl of Wilmington, one of St. Agatha’s committee members. Another committee member, Baron Hawthorne, stood beside him.

  “I brought the first men I could find,” the maid said from somewhere near the front door.

  “My husband is seriously injured,” Viola informed them, even though the fact was blatantly obvious. “I need to get him to St. Agatha’s right away.”

  “Fielding. Go call a carriage,” Wilmington yelled to another gentleman who’d come with them. “Hawthorne. You’re with me. Let’s see to it that Lowell survives.”

  A hand caught Viola’s elbow, urging her to rise. She resisted until she realized she was impeding all effort to help by being in the way. Wilmington and Hawthorne bent to pick Henry up. He groaned in response and Viola pushed her way forward again, doing her best to keep pressure on the wound as the men proceeded to carry him out of the house.

  “Good God, what has happened?” Mr. Andrews exclaimed as he met them by the carriage Fielding had procured. He was carrying a couple of parcels, both clearly marked with labels from Henry’s favorite tailor.

  “The Duke of Tremaine tried to kill him,” Viola explained while Henry was handed up into the carriage and placed upon one of the benches. “He’s still inside and badly wounded. He’ll need medical care as well.”

  “I’ll see to it that he gets it,” Mr. Andrews assured her.

  “Why don’t you and Hawthorne help him,” Wilmington said to Fielding. “Make sure the authorities are made aware of what happened. I’ll accompany Mrs. Lowell.”

  Hawthorne handed Viola up into the carriage. “We’ll keep you posted.” He closed the door behind her and the carriage took off.

  Henry’s body sprawled across the bench, blood pooling between Viola’s fingers even as she attempted to staunch it. When the carriage lurched, Wilmington leapt forward to stop him from tumbling onto the floor.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.”

  Wilmington gave a crisp nod. “I don’t know him well, but the Earl of Yates is a mutual friend. From what I’ve heard, your husband is a very good man. I truly hope he survives this.”

  So did Viola, but there was no telling what sort of damage the blade had done inside Henry’s body. His eyes were closed now, his lips slightly parted. Consumed by fear, she placed her palm above his mouth and prayed, not caring about the wet streaks dampening her cheeks when she felt air move across her skin. He was still breathing. Thank God.

  When they arrived at the hospital moments later, Viola asked Wilmington to keep continued pressure on Henry’s wound while she got out and proceeded to order people about. Within seconds, a stretcher arrived, carried by a pair of strong orderlies. They got Henry out of the carriage and moved him swiftly up the front steps of the building. Viola followed behind while Wilmington paid the coachman.

  “Get him to one of the operating rooms,” Viola commanded. “Where’s Florian?”

  “Right here!”

  She turned and saw him running toward her, and the relief of seeing the one man capable of saving Henry made Viola’s brief ability to stay strong crumble and fall. With a sob, she pointed in the direction the orderlies had gone while managing to say just one word. “Henry.”

  Florian left her where she stood and sprinted away, disappearing round a corner. Viola hurried after him with every intention of seeing to Henry’s welfare. But when she entered the operating room and saw him lying on the table while Florian probed inside his chest, she wondered if she was up to it.

  Florian heard her come in and glanced her way. “Are you sure you want to be here, Viola?”

  She hesitated briefly, then nodded.

  “I understand if this is too difficult for you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she promised, and took a step forward.

  He studied her briefly, then gave a firm nod. “You can take over from Haines after washing your hands.”

  Viola readied herself as she was accustomed to doing and relieved Haines of his duties. “How is he faring?” Viola asked while trying to think of Henry as just another patient. She had to detach herself as Florian had done if she was to be of use to him.

  “His right lung has been punctured and blood is gathering in his pleural cavity.”

  “In other words, he might not survive this,” Viola said with a voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside her own body.

  “If we don’t drain it, but at least he’s unconscious for now. If he wakes up while we’re working on him, we’ll have to give him some morphine.” Florian withdrew his fingers from inside Henry’s chest and dropped the scalpel he was holding into a tray filled with gin. “I needed to increase the size of the wound, that’s all.”

  That’s all. That’s all. Viola willed herself to focus, to not panic and do something stupid like start hitting Florian. He was the best physician there was. He knew what he was doing. She had to trust him.

  “Attach the longest cannula you can find to the piston syringe and hand it to me.”

  Viola gave her attention to the surgical tray where tools were spread out. The tube he requested was curved, thinner at one end than at the other. She did as he asked and then helped hold the wound open while Florian slipped the cannula inside. He started sucking out liquid and then detached the syringe so it could drain freely into a small container.

  “How does it look?” Viola asked.

  Florian bent over the fluid and sniffed. “The color is good and there’s no alarming smell to it, but our work would be easier if it were thinner. I need ginger extract and watered-down honey.”

  Locating the glass bottles containing the items, Viola prepared the solution Florian required and handed it to him. He pulled the tube from Henry’s chest, rinsed it and the piston syringe with a hefty amount of gin, then filled the syringe with the solution and injected it into the wound. Henry groaned but remained completely still.

  “Let’s try again,” Florian said after counting off a couple of minutes. He pulled back on the plunger, detached the syringe once more and allowed the wound to drain through the tube. “Much better. I’ll make a counter incision in his back afterward and repeat the process just to make sure we’ve eva
cuated all the extravasated blood.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we wait and see. Depending on how it heals, I may have to open the wounds back up and repeat the process.”

  Unable to think of such a possibility right now, Viola started readying the supplies that would soon be required, like compresses, bandages and the needle and waxed silk thread Florian would use for the sutures.

  It took longer than Viola had hoped before Henry was stitched up and ready to be moved, or maybe time just worked differently when the life of a person one loved hung in the balance.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” Florian asked as he and Viola followed the orderlies carrying Henry up to the room where he would be staying.

  She gave him a quick outline of recent events and saw his expression darken. “Perhaps I ought to examine you next?”

  “I’m fine,” Viola assure him. “I wasn’t struck too badly.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

  Florian nodded. “Let me ask if Robert’s here as well then. I’ll meet you upstairs in a minute.” Florian left her, arriving as he’d promised almost immediately after Viola reached Henry’s room.

  “He’s with Gilford,” Florian said in reference to another surgeon in St. Agatha’s employ. “Haines is attending.”

  “Do you know if the authorities have been notified of Robert’s attempt to kill Henry?”

  “Mr. Andrews was in the foyer. He and Hawthorne were keeping company with Wilmington and a Bow Street officer. I don’t expect Robert to leave here a free man, Viola.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Attempted murder carries the death sentence with it.”

  “I know.” She went to stand on the opposite side of the bed. “He looks so peaceful right now.”

  “That will likely change when he wakes.” Florian sighed. “I have to inform our parents and Mr. Faulkner too. I expect you’ll be staying here with him?”