Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  He sprawled on the sofa, his chest covered in blood. White to the lips, Brinsley lay with his eyes closed, his breath a labored, gurgling wheeze. A middle-aged man she’d never seen before held a blood-soaked pad of cloth to the wound in Brinsley’s chest.

  The world slowed to a heartbeat. Sarah felt as if she were floating, drowning, water cushioning her ears against sound. She swayed and gripped the arm of a nearby chair for support.

  Blood everywhere. The wall, splattered crimson. God, the smell.

  He must be dying. Anyone who lost that much blood must surely die. She couldn’t move her feet.

  Then Mrs. Higgins’s screech pierced the strange bubble that cocooned her.

  “Murderess! That’s her. She done it. That’s the one!”

  “Brinsley.” Breathing his name, Sarah staggered forward with her hands stretched out, almost tripping over a foot-stool that stood in her way.

  Ignoring the stranger’s mutter of disapproval, she dropped to her knees beside him and took his hand, slippery with blood.

  “Brinsley, you cannot die. I forbid it, do you hear me?” She spoke in a vehement whisper. It was stupid to think she could command him in this, but he had often knuckled down when she spoke to him in that tone.

  His lids fluttered open. His eyes rolled, then focused on her. “Sar—”

  “Yes, I’m here.” Her lips trembled. She looked up at the stranger, a fearful question in her eyes. Slowly, he shook his head.

  Her vision swam in tears, but she saw Brinsley move his mouth, trying to speak. His breath had so little force. She couldn’t hear what he said.

  “Brin, who did this? Who shot you?”

  The clasp of his hand grew stronger. “Can’t . . .” He wheezed a painful breath. “Vane. Did you . . . ?”

  The question stabbed her conscience, lanced it like a boil. All the foul matter spilled out, sickening her. God, the things she had done while Brinsley lay dying! Her stomach lurched but she choked down the burning bile.

  She watched him straining, struggling to hold on to life. She had to lie. She could not let him depart the world with his wife’s lurid confession of adultery ringing in his ears.

  Biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, she shook her head. “No.” Her voice broke on the word.

  “Good.” He took another slow, ragged breath. “Glad.” His fingers clenched on hers and he swallowed painfully. “Sorry, Sare. Made a damned . . . mess of us. . . .” He turned those blue eyes to her, with that angelic expression that she had steeled herself so many years ago to resist, the one that implored her to forgive.

  “Oh, God.” She bowed her head and wept in earnest, tears pouring down her cheeks, running into her mouth. “It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  She hardly knew who should forgive whom. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but the words wouldn’t come. Too great a hypocrisy, even for her.

  He dropped her hand and with another sobbing sigh, squeezed his eyes shut. He seemed to want to block her out, as if he needed to rest, or could no longer bear her presence. She couldn’t tell which.

  Dashing the tears away with the back of her blood-streaked hand, she rose and spoke in an urgent, low voice to the stranger. “Are you a doctor? Is there anything we can do?”

  Mrs. Higgins scoffed. “That’s no doctor. He’s the watch, that’s what ’e is! Called him meself when I heard the shot. You leave that poor boy alone! Haven’t you done enough this night?” She turned to the man, arms akimbo. “Arrest her, sirrah! What’re you waiting for?”

  Sarah sent her a searing glare. “Be quiet, you stupid woman! Of course I didn’t murder my husband. Can’t you see I’m trying to help him? He needs medical attention and you’re shrieking and carrying on and doing nothing to the purpose.” She started for the door. “I’m going to fetch the doctor.”

  The watchman put his hand on her arm and shook his head. “He’s done for. The missus here is right. It’s my bound duty to take you in, Mrs. Cole, on suspicion of murder.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “Come with me, please.”

  Sarah stared at the blocky, shabbily dressed individual, and then at her landlady. Higgins was agog with macabre anticipation, like the sort of woman who’d knitted at the guillotine. This could not be happening. First Brinsley, and now they thought she’d murdered him?

  She tried to remain calm, clutching at the clear proof of her innocence. “I wasn’t even here. I—” She stopped as the watchman licked the point of his pencil and began to write. She couldn’t admit she’d been with another man, with Vane, when her husband was shot. Panic rose to grip her throat.

  “Is this your pistol?” The watchman eyed her closely.

  She caught the acrid whiff of gunpowder as he held out a small silver pistol. The one she had loaded earlier that night . . .

  Her pistol had killed Brinsley? The room spun around her. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, willing back her self-control.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “That is mine.”

  “Aha!” cackled Mrs. Higgins. “Told you, didn’t I?”

  “But that doesn’t mean I fired it!” The small world of their parlor seemed increasingly bizarre. Foreign. As if everyone were speaking a language she didn’t understand. How could they accuse her of killing her own husband? It didn’t make sense.

  “Heard them arguing tonight, and all.” Higgins peered over the watchman’s shoulder, making sure he wrote down what she said. Sarah could have boxed her ears, the malevolent harpy.

  Struggling to remain calm, she repeated, “I wasn’t here.”

  “Strange time of night to be from home, ain’t it, ma’am? Can someone vouch for your whereabouts?”

  The question slammed into her like a prizefighter’s fist. Her stomach churned. She dropped her gaze. She couldn’t tell him about the night she’d spent with Vane. Even if she could bring herself to relate that sordid tale, the marquis would see her hang before he’d corroborate her story.

  “No,” she whispered. “There is no one.”

  “Well, then, ma’am. You’d best come along wiv me.”

  Sarah almost gave way to despair. She stared at Brinsley. His chest did not rise as strongly as before.

  “But he’s not—he hasn’t even . . .” She raised her pleading gaze to the watchman’s homely face. “Please. Let me stay until he’s gone.”

  “She wants to make sure she finishes him off!” screeched Mrs. Higgins, her pinched face mottled red, as if she’d scoured it with a scrubbing brush. “You didn’t oughter let her within five paces of him. I’ll report you to your superiors, I will!”

  The watchman looked tired. “She’s right, I’m afraid. We must go.”

  He made as if to take Sarah’s elbow but she shook him off and hurried to stand by the sofa. Inwardly cringing, she said, “Do you know who I am? My father is the Earl of Straghan, and he will have you dismissed for such rank incompetence when he hears about this. If you don’t let me stay, I shall make certain of it.”

  She thought she’d succeeded rather well in adopting her mother’s haughty tone. But the man glanced around at the dingy parlor, then made a leisurely survey of her own genteel shabbiness and raised a skeptical eyebrow. Clearly, he doubted she had any connection, blood or otherwise, to an earl.

  He crossed the room and took her arm in a firm grip. “Come along, madam, nice and quiet-like. Don’t want any trouble, now, do we?” A grin flickered. “Daughter of an earl should know better than to cause a nasty scene.”

  A choking gurgle made her twist in the watchman’s grasp and look back. With a last, violent shudder, Brinsley stilled, his mouth open, blue eyes staring.

  Mrs. Higgins bent forward to close his eyes in a gentle gesture that was almost loving. She straightened and shot Sarah a look filled with malice. “I’ll see you in Newgate for this, my lady, and I’ll be glad to watch you hang.”

  Six

  THE cell was dank and freezing, occ
upied by three loud, slatternly women Sarah took to be the lowest kind of whores. A fitting place for her, then.

  She sat in the farthest corner of the room on a wooden bench, fighting the urge to tuck her feet under her in case rats lurked in the deep shadows along the damp, grey stone wall.

  The cold numbed her body enough to quell the rank nausea she’d experienced on the journey to the watchhouse. But it did nothing to dam the images that flooded her mind.

  She kept picturing Brinsley lying dead on the sofa where he’d sat taunting her only hours before. The bright smear of red behind him on the wall. Her pistol, gleaming wickedly in her hand, winking at her, as if she were an accomplice in its dreadful deed.

  Guilt suffocated her when she thought of the night she’d spent with Vane. She closed her eyes, as if she could block out the image of Vane’s powerful body moving, straining over hers, or her hair flowing around him, shrouding them as she bent to kiss his hard, uncompromising mouth; the jut of his chin as she nipped the shadowed skin of his throat; his groans, hot and heavy in her ear. The scent of him, fresh soap from his bath, and later, musky and slick with sweat.

  Her hand, slick with blood.

  She shuddered.

  “Cold are yer, luv?” A tin flask was thrust under her nose. “Get some o’ that into yer.”

  Sarah struggled not to recoil from the pungent fumes. She looked up to see a round, fleshy face, its shrewd brown eyes regarding her with something approaching kindness.

  Strange. Twenty-four hours ago, she would have looked through this woman as if she didn’t exist, swept her skirts aside in high-bred disdain to avoid touching her. Now, she said, “Thank you, but I don’t drink spirits, Miss . . . er . . .”

  “Ooh-er, listen to Lady Muck!” Though the tart’s words were malicious, her tone was indulgent. She shrugged and walked back to her cohorts, wide hips swinging a jaunty rhythm.

  Sarah inhaled deeply and repressed a shudder. The watchhouse cell smelled like unwashed bodies and rising damp and other, more unpleasant odors she’d rather not think about. How long would they keep her here? If only someone with half a brain would listen to her. If only she might explain.

  She remembered the grisly fate her landlady had promised. It wouldn’t come to that, surely. They couldn’t hang someone on the scant evidence against her. And even if they could, her father would not allow it. Estranged they might be, but the Earl of Straghan would never suffer his daughter to be had up for murder.

  Yet, how could she send word to him, even were she permitted to do so? How could she tell him the sordid truth about where she’d been when Brinsley was shot?

  She closed her eyes and imagined how her father would look, what he would say. He was not a man given to expressing his feelings, nor even to letting them show on his face. But she would know that behind that impassive, patrician façade, he was bitterly disappointed in her. Her mother would say it served her well for marrying Brinsley.

  No, she must find her own way out of this coil. And without involving her father, a member of Liverpool’s cabinet, a peer of the realm.

  On her arrival, she’d reasserted her innocence, but the watchman had told her she must wait for the magistrate’s verdict later in the morning. The beak would decide whether the charges against her might be proven and commit her for trial.

  Sarah worked her lower lip between her teeth. She ought to retain legal counsel in such a serious matter, but sending word to the family solicitor would guarantee her father’s involvement, something she must avoid. And without her family’s support, she couldn’t afford to hire anyone else to represent her.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to think of a way, but instead of solutions, pointless recriminations ran through her mind. If only she hadn’t left her pistol loaded. If only she’d been home, where she ought to have stayed, perhaps Brinsley wouldn’t have been murdered. In that case, she was not only adulteress and whore, but responsible for her husband’s death.

  Her stomach lurched. If she’d been home, would she have been killed also? Who could have murdered Brinsley. Why?

  Heavy footsteps approached. The cell door rattled for an unconscionably long time. Her tension rose with every moment. Finally, the door opened.

  Sarah squinted against the lamplight that outlined a tall, dark figure. The light was behind him, so she could make out nothing but his shape.

  “Lady Sarah?” A low-pitched, genteel voice spoke.

  She could barely summon the breath to respond. “Yes?”

  The figure turned back to retrieve the lamp from his attendant and advanced into the cell.

  Buttery light flickered over his face, and when she made out the familiar features, she gasped. “Peter! But how—”

  “Not now.” Her brother-in-law darted a meaningful glance at the other occupants of the cell and Sarah fell silent. Peter Cole held out his hand. “You must come with me.”

  Nothing made sense, but Sarah was so grateful to leave those awful conditions, she asked no more questions, simply took Peter’s hand and rose to follow him. She barely heard the catcalls and lewd jests from the other women in the cell.

  Did this mean her release or was it a temporary reprieve? Whatever the case, she could have cried with joy at seeing Peter’s familiar face.

  As they left the prison, Sarah summoned her wits and tried to fathom this latest development in the nightmare of the past night. Brinsley and Peter had never been on the best of terms, and Sarah herself had only met Brinsley’s brother on a handful of occasions.

  Peter Cole was everything Brinsley wasn’t—industrious, principled, and honorable. He was some kind of clerk at the Home Office, or so Brinsley had said, scoffing at his upright brother and his political aspirations. No wonder Peter wished to distance himself from Brinsley. The tawdry life of an inveterate gamester and womanizer would not reflect well on a civil servant with ambitions to rise in Parliament.

  She glanced at Peter’s profile—not nearly as handsome as Brinsley’s, and with a gravity about his mouth and jaw that contrasted sharply with his brother’s sensual lineaments. A dependable face. Peter Cole, unlike his late brother, was someone she could trust.

  Outside, Sarah breathed the morning air deeply into her lungs and expelled it with a thankful sigh. Peter took her elbow and hurried her to a waiting carriage.

  As soon as the door closed on them, Sarah turned to him, gripping her hands together. “Peter, I don’t know how you come to be here, or where you are taking me, but you must believe me. I did not kill Brinsley. I swear I did not.”

  Peter shook his head. “Of course you didn’t. Of course not. And what they were about, putting an earl’s daughter in a common cell, I can’t imagine. What would your esteemed father say if he knew?”

  Sarah’s gaze flew to his. “You didn’t send word to the earl? Please tell me you didn’t.”

  He shifted a little. “No. I was going to as soon as I heard. But my superior at the Home Office ordered me to bring you into his offices for questioning before informing your father.”

  He paused, and she wondered whether it was to quell his emotions. Surely he must feel something at his brother’s passing? But he continued, “Of course, we cannot allow it to become public, at least not until we are certain of the facts. Don’t want the broadsheets getting hold of a scandal like this.”

  “But how do you propose to stop news from getting out?” asked Sarah. “There were witnesses.”

  “We will take care of them,” said Peter. “It won’t be easy, of course, but it can be done.”

  Sarah swallowed hard, averting her gaze. It seemed Peter was less concerned with the fact of Brinsley’s death than the manner of concealing it. For her father’s sake and her own, she ought to be grateful. But she was appalled.

  “Don’t they mean to investigate the murder?” she said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “I imagine a trial would bring everything out into the open. How could you stop it then?”

  “Even the Home Office cannot
save you from a murder charge if there is evidence to support it, my lady,” he said, misinterpreting the reason behind her question. “I don’t believe you did it, of course.” He paused. “My superior might be harder to convince.”

  “Peter, I wasn’t even there! I told the watchman as much but he didn’t believe me.” Sarah shivered. “And while you are all wasting time with me, the real killer is still on the loose.”

  Quickly, Peter said, “Do you suspect someone?”

  She shook her head. “I was unacquainted with most of Brinsley’s associates. I am led to believe that some of them were unsavory characters, but he didn’t mention them or introduce them to me. I am sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “We’ve searched your rooms.” At her startled look, he said, “It had to be done. We found nothing that might point us in the right direction, however. Is there anywhere else Brinsley might have kept important papers or correspondence? Anywhere else we might look?”

  Sarah bit her lip. “Not that I’m aware. But then I expect I’d have been the last to know.”

  “Lady Sarah, it’s imperative that we know everything if we want to catch this killer. You will tell me if you remember something, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” She blew out a breath. “I daresay I am still too shocked by his death to think clearly.”

  Peter paused, apparently absorbed in smoothing the wrinkles from his gloves. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she saw a shimmer in his grey eyes. “Poor Brinsley,” he said. “The poor, stupid fool.”

  VANE arrived at Lyon House, hardly knowing how he got there. The last few miles had passed unnoticed, but somehow he must have steered Tiros in the right direction, for here he was, approaching the lodge on his Richmond estate.

  Quelling a sudden urge to wheel about and keep riding straight to the Devil, he nodded to Ned, the gatekeeper, and rode Tiros through the gates.

  Ordinarily, this old redbrick house with its turrets and tall chimneys and oriole windows embraced him with the comforting warmth of childhood memories. While his father lived, his parents had spent each Season in the Mayfair town house, close to Parliament. The children had always stayed here, away from the bustle and noxious air of London but still within easy reach of their doting mama. Lyon House was not Vane’s principal estate, but the one most beloved of them all. Which explained why the family continued to gravitate here, rather than to the grander house at Bewley.