The soft, red-tinged light grew even more vague and fuzzy. Her hands moved frantically, trying to loosen the cord. She grabbed something soft, but it ripped away without providing relief.
Unable to get her fingers under the cord, she pushed her hands against the wall, thrusting her head backward. The pressure lightened briefly—enough to gasp one sweet breath—before the cord bit into her throat once more.
Blood thundered in her ears. A dark, crimson haze suffused her vision, and she staggered, her knees slowly buckling.
She had been a fool. Lady Beatrice had never changed. She was still the same, bloody-minded girl she had been in school.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the case of an assault not committed in his presence, the constable would not be justified in arresting the accused person, unless it was evident that a serious assault had been committed, or a dangerous wound given. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
“Charlotte! Charlotte! Can you hear me?” Nathaniel asked, cradling Charlotte’s unconscious body in his arms.
He pressed a damp handkerchief to her forehead, watching anxiously as her eyelids fluttered. Without warning, she coughed, gasping for air and struggling to breathe, obviously in pain. Her elbow dug into his stomach as she tried to sit up.
“You are safe,” he murmured against her damp hair.
Despite her attempts to push him away, he held onto her, relieved to feel her living warmth against his chest.
“What….” she wheezed in a rasping voice. He watched the muscles in her throat tighten as she tried to swallow, but she only coughed harshly before gasping for more air.
Nathaniel raised her shoulders and held a glass of brandy against her lips. “Drink this. Just a sip.”
He tipped a trickle of alcohol into her mouth and supported her while she choked it down. After swallowing, she wrapped her arms around her head protectively, curling in upon herself, pushing him away.
The gesture sliced into his heart.
He had failed to protect her, even though he knew she might be in danger. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he tightened control over his rage and fear at nearly losing her.
He thrust the glass against her lips again although she batted at his hand. When he tilted it up, she swallowed with difficulty, gasping for air.
“Again,” he demanded.
Charlotte pushed his hand away and stared beyond his shoulder. Behind him, he could hear Cheery’s soft tread.
Despite his approach, Nathaniel ignored his friend. He poured more brandy into the glass from the bottle on the floor next to him. He forced it against her pale lips and cursed himself under his breath.
Why had he been such an idiot? He instinctively knew Sir Henry had not killed those women, however he had never considered a woman might be responsible. The crimes seemed so brutal. Who would have suspected that delicate-looking Lady Beatrice would use a marble statuette from her gardens to kill a rival?
Even Cheery had been surprised. Or at least he seemed to be, although it was never easy to tell with his impassive face.
“Is she conscious?” Cheery asked.
“Barely.” Nathaniel slid his arm more firmly around Charlotte, studying her wan face. Her eyes were searing red and there was an ugly, purple line of puffiness around her neck. Cold fury sheared through him again—a frigid gale of emotion.
“Thank God you came back in time,” Cheery said, bending down to pick up the bottle and refill the glass. “How did you happen to find her?”
“The curtain billowed out. I batted it aside on my way to my box and accidentally hit Lady Beatrice. I still might have gone past thinking I was disturbing a pair of overly amorous lovers when I caught sight of copper-red hair.”
He touched the flaming curls. A stray lock wound around his finger.
“Provident she is a redhead, eh?”
Nathaniel eyed him coldly.
Cheery shrugged and gestured with the brandy bottle. “Get another few drops into her. It will help her throat.” He glanced around as someone else approached. “Lady Victoria, your ward is nearly recovered, I believe. And I was sent with the news the carriage is here and ready.” He pulled the curtain aside and glanced into the small niche. “What is this?” He picked up a torn bag. “Lady Beatrice’s reticule?”
Nathaniel scowled before snarling, “Leave off, will you?” He didn’t give a damn if Cheery found a pot of leprechaun gold.
A few items tumbled out of the ripped pouch. One of them glinted in the candlelight. A small blue object flecked with gold. Cheery picked it up. “This would not be yours would it?”
Nathaniel glanced at the thing in his friend’s hand. A twisted lump of lapis lazuli. “Yes, damn it.”
Cheery chuckled and handed him the fob. “Get that hook fixed before you lose it again. Damn nuisance leaving evidence lying about like that.”
“What about Lady Beatrice?” Nathaniel changed the subject as he took the fob and shoved it into his pocket. When Charlotte tried to squirm away, he tightened his embrace, remembering how close he had been to losing her.
He would never forget the searing intensity of purpose in Lady Beatrice’s face as she stood behind Charlotte, tightening the noose around her neck. Nathaniel had gripped Lady Beatrice’s shoulder and pulled her away from Charlotte’s sagging form, forgetting how close they were to the top of the stairs.
Lady Beatrice had stumbled away and stood wavering, flapping her arms for several seconds. Newton’s law of gravity finally caught hold of her and pulled her down the staircase. Her shrill screams reverberated above the riotous clatter of the departing audience as she tumbled backwards down the wide, marble stairs.
“She will most likely survive,” Cheery said. “Though I suspect she has a broken leg and arm, if not worse.”
“Too bad she did not break her neck.”
“It will not be long before that happens, if she is lucky and does not just strangle when the hangman drops her.”
Nathaniel glared at Cheery. “Do you have to be so damn satisfied?”
“It is not everyday a fellow catches a murderess and a kidnapper.”
“You did not even know it was Lady Beatrice, neither of us really knew.”
“Did I not?”
Nathaniel’s brow rose. “If you did, you were remarkably silent about it. You should have warned me.”
“A gentleman does not go about accusing highborn females. That is one lesson I learned thoroughly eight years ago.”
The significance of his casual remark did not escape Nathaniel. It had taken a great deal of skill for Cheery to avoid the noose when his father had been murdered by a most unexpected killer. The experience left him with better reason than most to mistrust women.
Nathaniel nodded. “You don’t think she killed Lady Anne and Miss Mooreland just because I danced a few times with them, do you? The idea is insane.”
Cheery’s dark face appeared sympathetic for a split second until the expression submerged below his normal, more saturnine appearance. “You danced twice with each one of them, and thrice with Lady Anne. You even fetched refreshments for them. What were you thinking, Dodger? A true misogynist should have been a little less eager to feed and traipse around the dance floor with so many ladies.” He chuckled when Nathaniel tried to protest. “And Lady Anne was apparently so enthralled by your company that she followed you—a fatal error in judgment. She should not have pursued you quite so energetically. I gather Miss Mooreland was also fairly persistent.”
“I wish they had not been,” Nathaniel said tiredly.
“Being a duke is not always the easiest position in the world, is it?” Cheery asked.
“Some days it is more like hell than you might imagine.”
“Ah, yes, but think of all those lovely succubae inhabiting the nether regions. Makes hell look almost…attractive.”
Nathaniel ran a finger over the twisted edges of the lapis in his pocket. “How did she get this, do you think? I swear it could not have been lef
t by Lady Anne’s body. The fob was already missing before I ever went near that spot.”
“But you were near Lady Beatrice, were you not?” Cheery asked. “Several times, in fact, during the evening. I imagine she simply twitched it off your watch chain while you were dancing.”
He nodded. “I suppose it is the only reasonable explanation. But I hate to think of her planning to kill Lady Anne and Miss Mooreland like that. It does not seem possible that a woman could be responsible.”
Cheery shrugged. “Women are much more adept at planning things like that than we give them credit for. In my experience, in any event.”
His words brought to mind one moment after a waltz when Lady Beatrice had seemingly tripped, and her hand had brushed Nathaniel’s waist. The movement had been so provocative he had naturally assumed she was flirting with him.
That had to be when he lost his lapis fob. Perhaps, she initially hoped to use it as an excuse to visit him, and then later recognized the fob’s value as a way to blackmail him into a proposal. At least he hoped it was later. It was disturbing to think that might have been part of her scheme from the beginning.
It all seemed incredible.
Charlotte coughed again and tried to curl into a ball.
Nathaniel cradled her head against his chest and then picked her up. “Do something at least moderately useful, will you Cheery? Clear the way and make sure the carriage is out front. Then find the Archers. We are leaving.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
At the top of the stairs, Nathaniel looked back at the tall, black-clad figure. “And thanks.”
“You solved it,” Cheery said with a careless wave.
“But I did not realize it,” Nathaniel paused and studied his friend. “When did you decide it was Lady Beatrice?”
“Did you ever look at the back of Miss Haywood’s list? Did you see the drawing of Lady Beatrice?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Did you notice her dress?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel replied impatiently.
“You did not look closely enough, then. There were stains on the front.” Cheery’s dark eyes glittered with amusement. “I asked Miss Haywood about them. She poetically described them as venom from Lady Beatrice’s fangs.”
“What is the relevance of that comment? She had spots on her dress because she bumped into a footman carrying a tray of wine. It was a trivial accident, nothing more.”
Cheery shook his head. “You are wrong. I questioned her new footman, Tom Henry, about it. First off, she had to have gotten at least a little blood on her dress when she killed Lady Anne. You, yourself, noted you could not be the murderer because you had no blood anywhere on your person.”
“But, she did not have blood on her, either!”
“Not after she deliberately bumped into that footman carrying the glasses of Madeira. The wine effectively hid any existing blood splatters. And you apparently missed the charming episode where Lady Beatrice stepped on the footman’s hand and ground it into the broken glass. It seemed an excessive form of revenge until I realized she might have had another purpose entirely. His blood was an excellent excuse for the bloodstains on her shoes.” Cheery shrugged. “A quite unnecessary action, of course. No one noticed her stained shoes. However I believe she was acting impulsively. In her haste, she must have thought it was a clever move. If she had not been so needlessly cruel, I might not have suspected her. But of course, there was also the fact that the murderer always stood behind the girls.”
“Which made you suspect a woman,” Nathaniel said.
“Yes. No strength was required, and there was very little chance of injury. Have you ever tried to beat off someone who comes at you from behind? Your Lady Beatrice would not have risked having her face clawed during a struggle.”
“She is not my Lady Beatrice, thank God!”
The corners of Cheery’s mouth twitched slightly before he turned on his heel to find the Archers. Glancing down, Nathaniel saw to his consternation that Charlotte had been listening throughout the interchange.
“I am sorry,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair. “Forget about this—you will be home, soon.”
She nodded and then squirmed, speaking softly. “I can walk.” Her voice was so low he could hardly hear her.
So he pretended he didn’t and carried her down the stairs.
****
The next morning, Charlotte stared despondently into the mirror. Her eyes glowed a brilliant, deep, turquoise blue—mostly because the whites were vibrant red. She looked like a demon suffering from a particularly pernicious hangover. Her head throbbed when she stood up too quickly and her throat…. Well, lemon verbena tea liberally laced with brandy and honey was all she could swallow. It made her head swim and her limbs numb, but it was worth it to obtain relief from the aching pain.
The slight tipsiness also made her feel less depressed about Nathaniel. Now that he was no long in danger of hanging, the ladies would be swarming around him like bees.
Did he regret his foolish claim that they were engaged? The declaration had been made hastily and in public to save her from being embarrassed. Maybe it embarrassed him now.
Perhaps she should thank him and reiterate that she had no intention of marrying. He was free to select some appropriately aristocratic female and breed as many idiot children as he desired. There must be hundreds of girls dying to become the next Duchess of Peckham.
“Miss Haywood? You have a visitor waiting in the Yellow Sitting room,” a maid announced with a curtsey.
Charlotte wanted to ask whom, but she decided to save her voice. She nodded slightly and then rose to her feet very, very carefully. When the top of her head remained where it was without exploding, she glided to the door.
The stairs were a bit of a challenge. However she found by stepping down unhurriedly and then pausing on each stair, she could manage. She slowly descended and was relieved when she got to the second floor without falling or bursting into flames from the sparks of pain in her head igniting the alcohol fumes lacing her breath.
The Yellow Sitting room positively swarmed with people when she entered. She stood in the doorway, blinking in the bright light. Mr. Archer and Lady Victoria were seated on a bench, companionably sharing the newspaper. Nathaniel stood near an alcove with a window seat piled high with white-and-gold silk pillows. Suddley was in the process of setting down a tea tray on the low table in front of Lady Victoria.
“Miss Haywood!” Lady Victoria called, catching sight of her. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She smiled in response and tried to take a seat in a comfortable gold damask armchair situated across the low table from Lady Victoria. Charlotte had barely bent her knees before Nathaniel slipped an arm around her waist.
“The view by the window is extraordinary this morning,” he said, guiding her toward the alcove.
“Suddley, a cup for Miss Haywood, if you would. With plenty of honey,” Lady Victoria said.
Charlotte shook her head, but had to stop when the room started spinning. She wondered precisely how much brandy the maid had put in the pot of tea this morning. Wiggling her toes, she realized she couldn’t quite feel them, or her ankles, any longer.
She blinked. Her nerves jangled.
Nathaniel partially shut the yellow velvet drapes.
“You look exceedingly well after your ordeal, Charlotte.” One of his brows rose after using her name in front of her guardian.
She stared at the duke, considering how to deliver a proper set-down without actually opening her mouth.
When she remained silent, he studied her, catching her gaze. “Your eyes are…very vivid blue.”
“Hmmm,” she said. She had noticed the same thing just a few minutes previously. Bloodshot whites greatly enhanced their vividness. Her mouth curved down.
“I suppose you must realize, Charlotte….”
She raised her brows.
“I love you!” he said.
Her
brows wouldn’t rise any higher, so she patted his hands and suddenly found herself in his embrace. He tilted her head up and fastened his mouth over hers. Heart pounding, her arms slipped over his shoulders, her fingers twining into his soft hair.
He felt so warm and safe. Like a sheik of Arabia, carrying her off on his white Arabian horse across the hot sands….
Good Lord! That pot of tea must have contained an entire bottle of brandy! Or she was losing her mind.
When he released her, he smiled down at her. “You will marry me, will you not?”
Her grin faltered, and she shook her head.
“Are you refusing?”
“Um-huh,” she whispered. “Can you not find some other girl to pester? I thought you were not ready to be bound and gagged with the bonds of matrimony?”
“The hell of it is—I was wrong. I am ready, Charlotte, and I want to marry you. I love you. Please don’t refuse—you cannot be so cruel as to leave me to the mercy of every smug young debutante who decides she wants to marry a duke.”
“I am sorry, but…Egypt. I cannot give it up. I simply cannot.” Her voice was so hoarse she wanted to cry. She felt forlorn and helpless.
“Surely, you don’t still intend to run off to Cairo?”
She nodded vigorously. “I want to. I need to—” she rasped out, her hand rubbing her bruised throat.
He sat back, his brows drawn into a deep V. He appeared to think deeply before he asked, “You don’t love me, then?”
She grasped his hand and brought it up to her mouth. She had to tell him the truth before she left. “Yes, I do. But you must stay here, and I must go.” Her voice gave out, and she took a sip of tea.
He had to realize that as a duke, he could not leave England for long periods of time. He had duties and responsibilities here, while she had dreams of Egypt.
Her heart felt crushed, imprisoned within the walls of her ribs. Despite her love, she could not give up the only thing that had sustained her during eight long, cold years.
Her pride wouldn’t let her.
Love Regency Style Page 171
