by Jo Beverley
“I enjoy numbers.”
“Can I hope that extends to cards? I think whist is proposed.”
“How good are you?” she asked.
“Tolerable.”
“Then we’d best play for tiny stakes. So impolite to beggar one’s hosts.”
He was better than tolerable, and they began to collude not to win, for Lizzie in particular was a careless player, preferring to gossip rather than watch the cards.
At ten o’clock they all ate a light supper, and then the Torrismondes went to bed. Georgia and Dracy remained in the drawing room, for the safety of it, she knew.
“Another activity in which we’re well suited,” he said.
“I enjoy cards, but not true gambling.”
“I feel the same.”
She began to build a tower with the cards, but the deck was old and the cardboard often bent. He helped, and they reached a seventh story. A foolish pastime, but Georgia knew they were both waiting, hoping for news. When the clock struck eleven, however, she couldn’t hold back a yawn. She had been up very early.
They jointly demolished their ramshackle creation and went up together, hand in hand, as they had been that night on the terrace at Thretford. Possibilities danced like hot temptation. There was nothing to restrain them except themselves.
They were to marry.
It wouldn’t be so terrible a sin.
Yet they parted with a kiss at her door. A simple kiss, a gentle kiss. It was enough for now, for this waiting time, when there was the certainty of more.
Chapter 35
Georgia readied for sleep in a fog of weariness, but when Jane had left and she approached the bed, she was too restless to get between the sheets. That bright moon shone in again, and she saw that the pane hadn’t been replaced, nor the splinter of glass removed.
It didn’t matter. The night air was only pleasantly cool.
She opened both casements wide to enjoy it.
With a smile she accepted that she was acting the plaintive lover. She should be declaring, Dracy, Dracy, wherefore art thou, Dracy? She knew where he was, however, and was denying herself.
She inhaled, seeking night perfumes, but couldn’t detect anything in particular. Night-flowering plants mostly gave out the strongest perfumes in the evening and early dark, and now it was nearly midnight.
An owl hooted, and somewhere, a fox barked.
The door opened behind her.
She turned, surprised, but sinfully pleased that Dracy’s will had broken.
But it was a servant.
An outdoor servant in breeches and frieze jacket.
With a pistol in his hand.
Dear God, it was Sellerby!
“Make no sound,” he said, closing the door. “Or I will shoot you.”
“But you can’t stand blood!”
“By the time you bleed, you’ll be dead.”
He was calmly rational, even smiling, but terrifying.
Georgia frantically weighed it. A scream and Dracy would be here in moments followed by others. But if Sellerby fired at this distance, she would be dead.
She didn’t want to die.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice strangled.
“You. My lovely, darling Georgia, all I ever wanted was you.”
“I was married,” she whispered, knowing it was nonsense even as she spoke. Her heart seemed to pound in her throat, and she couldn’t think.
She had to think.
“And now you’re a widow.” He held out his left hand. “Come, my love. I’m here to set you free and give you everything your heart desires.”
Georgia shook her head, dumbstruck, but trying to find an escape. He stood in front of the door. The window was to her right, but it was far too high. She’d die from the fall.
“We’d never get away,” she managed.
Play along with his fantasies. Play his warped lover’s game.
“The house sleeps, poorly guarded. So easy to avoid those watching and to break the glass in one ornamental door. Come, I have a horse nearby. We can ride for the coast and take ship to heaven.”
“Leave England?” she asked, simply to delay. She glanced toward Dickon’s picture beside the bed. Help me, love.
Sellerby strode over and snatched up the picture. “We have no need of that, do we?” Smiling at her, he threw it out through the open window.
Georgia choked back a scream, but if she’d held the pistol she would have fired it.
Her head was clear now, however. Sellerby, or rather Dickon, had given her a plan.
She ran to the window and looked down. “Why did you do that?”
“He wasn’t worthy of you. Where would you like to live? Not France or Germany. Too close, too easily found. Russia perhaps, or the East. Would you like India?”
She turned back, pulling shut half the window, as if from annoyance at his action. The side with the broken pane. “India would be too hot. I’d sicken there.”
“Then America, north or south.”
“I don’t want to leave England,” she said petulantly, turning half away from him. “All my friends are here.”
She pressed the heel of her hand against the sliver, trying not to flinch or wince as she dragged her flesh over it.
He noticed something. “What are you doing?” he asked, raising the pistol, coming toward her.
Georgia thrust out her hand, her bleeding hand, and he fell back a step.
“Blood, Sellerby. Blood!” She smeared it over the front of her white nightgown. “Dickon would have looked like this, bleeding from the heart.”
He stared, shocked, even horrified, but he hadn’t fainted!
He waved the pistol at her. “Get away. Get away from the glass.”
She scurried sideways, squeezing the gash she’d made in her hand to get more blood, but it was stopping. Why hadn’t she pressed deeper? Why wasn’t the blood having the right effect?
He was unsteady, at least, and leaned against the windowsill for balance. The pistol shook but still pointed toward her, and now he was furious. “They’ve turned you against me.”
Moonlight, she realized. Everything in shades of gray, even her blood. The full effect on him must be in color.
“Alas, it must be the other way, then,” he said. “I will shoot you and then take the poison I’ve brought. You’ll see the truth in the next life.”
He was serious.
Smell! Blood had a particular smell.
As he steadied the pistol, Georgia forced open the wound so a bit more blood oozed and then ran toward him to thrust her hand at his face. He raised the pistol to shield himself and she fisted it out of her way and drove her bloody hand onto his nostrils.
“No!” he choked. “No…”
“Yes. Dracy! Someone! To me! Sellerby’s here!”
She pressed her hand harder and harder. “You killed Dickon,” she snarled. “You killed Dickon. You killed Dickon.…”
She couldn’t stop saying it, couldn’t stop pushing, even as he whined and struggled to get away.
And then he went over backward, out through the open casement. She almost went with him but grabbed the casement at the last moment, clung to it in horror as he landed with a horrible crunch on the ground beneath.
Arms came around her, pulled her away from the window. “What’s happening? What are you doing? Blood!”
“Sellerby!” she gasped. “I…I think I killed him.”
Everything went black.
Dracy caught her up in his arms as the Torrismondes ran in.
“What’s happening?”
“Georgia!”
Dracy put Georgia on the bed. “Take care of her. See what wound she has.” He ran to the window and looked out. “Dear God.”
Torrismonde was by his side. “Sellerby?” He turned to some servant behind. “Someone’s fallen out of the window. Go and see if he’s dead.”
Dracy returned to the bed. “How bad is it?”
“She’s not h
urt at all,” Lady Torrismonde said, “except on her hand. See, she’s coming to. It’s all right, Georgia, love. It’s all right.”
Dracy climbed onto the bed and took her in his arms. “It is all right, love. You’re safe now.”
She stared at him. “I killed him. I didn’t mean to kill him!”
“Hush, hush.”
He pulled her against his chest, but she whispered, “Could I hang for killing him? That would be an even greater scandal, wouldn’t it? A countess hanged for killing an earl.”
“Hush,” he said again, feeling helpless. “Of course that could never happen.” He looked at Lady Torrismonde, but she didn’t need to be told.
“Sweet tea and brandy. As soon as may be.”
The servant returned. “Dead, milord. I don’t know who he is!”
“I’ll deal with this,” Torrismonde said and left.
Georgia wriggled free, still shocked, but showing her strength. “My robe…”
He found it for her and helped her into it.
“He’s truly dead,” she said.
“Yes.” He was about to reassure her, to comfort her, but she said, “I am very, very glad.”
He smiled at her. “You should have gone to the masquerade as Joan of Arc.”
“Not a happy fate. To talk of costumes! He outdid himself in rough clothing. I might not have recognized him on the street. But down there, he looked like a broken doll.”
“Never mind, love.…”
“He said if I called for help he’d shoot me,” she said, “and I think he would. The blood didn’t work.”
Dracy took her back into his arms. “You tried to scare him off with blood?”
She nodded. “But the sight of it didn’t make him faint. Then I thought of smell.…”
“Don’t try to explain now, my love.”
“But I need to explain how he came to fall. I realized that blood smells. I pushed my hand to his nose, and he was desperate to get away. So he went backward through the open window. He threw Vance out like that, so it serves him right, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sure it does.…”
But she tore from his arms and ran over to the window. “Please, can someone bring up Dickon’s picture? He shouldn’t be down there with him.”
Dracy swept her up into his arms and carried her away to his room just as Lady Torrismonde came with sweet, brandied tea.
He sat with her in his lap, feeding her the tea. “My brave darling. Is it possible to adore you more?”
“You don’t mind that I killed him?”
“I crown you with golden laurels. I only regret that you were terrified.”
“I’m sorry for being silly.”
“Hardly silly,” Lizzie said. “You’re a heroine. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“But he came here,” Georgia said, sitting up straight. “I brought evil here. I create danger wherever I go!”
“One man brought danger into your life,” Dracy said, “and you vanquished him. Now he will harm no one anymore. Drink more tea.”
She obeyed and relaxed again, but said, “There’ll be a new scandal attached to me. He fell from my window.”
“We’ll arrange things as best we can. Don’t worry about it now. You’re sleeping here tonight,” he said, looking a challenge at Lady Torrismonde. “With me.”
Georgia smiled a little. “Thank you. I don’t want to be alone.”
* * *
Georgia awoke aware of someone in her bed, and of comfort.
A moment later, she opened her eyes and rose to look at the man beside her, his scarred face relaxed in sleep. She’d recognized him before she’d seen him, by instinct.
Memory returned with shocking clarity, but it didn’t shake her, because he was with her. Her steadfast guardian, her anchor.
And then she smiled. She shouldn’t smile at a death, not even the death of evil, but she did. Lord Sellerby was dead and she needn’t fear he would hurt anyone else she loved.
She reached out to touch, but then hesitated, inches away. It seemed wrong to intrude on a sleeping person, but then she placed her hand on his warm shoulder, covered only by his linen nightshirt.
His lids fluttered and then he woke up, smiling, but also searching her face.
“I’m all right. I’m not,” she added, “distressed.”
Smile turned to grin, and he captured her hand to kiss it, playing his lips there and then sliding them up her sleeve, across her shoulder until he found the exposed skin of her neck.
She stretched slightly with pleasure, and he explored behind her ear and all around it, sending shivers through her.
“We are not,” he whispered softly, “going to do more here, my sweet lady.”
She slid her eyes to him. “We’re not?”
“I hope we’ll have thousands of mornings and thousands of nights.…”
“The time for wickedness.”
“All times are ripe for wickedness, and pleasure. But this is not ideal, not for our first full discovery. Let’s arise and explore the morning of our new days.”
She smiled and kissed him, yearning, but knowing he was right. There should be a special time for that, and this was not it, with stories still to spin and questions to be answered, and with Dracy Manor still to be visited.
“Come with me back to my room so I can find some clothes.”
“Of course. I can show my skills with stay laces.”
She swatted him on the arm and led the way, and he did know how to tie stay laces as well as Jane. But Jane couldn’t spice the process as he did, with scattered kisses, some soft, some firm, and some very sweet nips.
She pushed him away when he was done, hot and tingling all over, and aching deep inside. “Get dressed. I can manage from here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, but I warn you, Lord Dracy, I will not let Jane go when I move to your pigsty!”
Chapter 36
They returned to London first, to explanations to her parents, who heard the truth, and eventually to an inquest, which heard most of it.
Georgia hated having to give her evidence in the crowded room, with people from all stations packed in to hear more about the Maybury Scandal, as it was now known.
That evening, she wrote to Lizzie about it in her room.
Dear Lizzie,
It was quite horrid. So many people, all staring at me, and the heat and smell. I feared I would faint. Perhaps it would have conveyed a good impression, but pride forbade it. I completely understand that you could not come, because your husband didn’t want you involved, so don’t distress yourself on that. I had so many other friends to support me, including Diana Rothgar and her husband, which made a considerable impression.
All was helped by Lord Mansfield having made known the contents of the Vance letter in the days before. The beau monde now feasts on Sellerby’s reputation, not mine, and many even see me as an innocent victim of a madman rather than an adulterous accomplice. It’s odd, isn’t it, that the world found it easier to believe I was Vance’s whore than Sellerby’s?
All the same, recounting that night was difficult, especially as Dracy says I’m a poor liar. Everyone told me it would be best not to confess to my attack, so I did my best. It wasn’t hard to convey the terror of being confronted by death, but I claimed the cut to my hand was an accident. Sellerby’s reaction to blood was well-known, and no one seemed to think of the effect of moonlight on the color of blood, so there was no need to mention smell. The coroner accepted that in his distress, Sellerby thrust away from me and fell to his death.
The jury decided it was accidental death, complicated by the victim being insane. So thus, it is over.
Dracy is insisting that Vance’s death be revisited so that the judgment can be murder and his bones can be reinterred. I still can’t feel any kindness to that man, but I make no protest. Perry is beside himself at letting Sellerby slip by him in London, for he had him watched and never imagined he’d put
on lowly garb. It will do him well to be brought low, just a little, in my opinion, for he is generally intolerably right about everything.
Tomorrow I fulfill Dracy’s final condition and travel to Dracy Manor, which is like to take four days. Four days from Town! Once I couldn’t have endured it, and even now I quail a little. I know the state of Dracy cannot turn me against him, but my next letter will be from there with a full and complete description of the horrors, and pleas for solutions for myriad disgusting problems.
