Always True to Her (Emerson Book 2)

by Maureen Driscoll

  “That is terrible,” said Irene.

  “It was a terrible inconvenience, I can tell you that.”

  “No, I mean the girl. And the baby. To take such drastic action because she feared her family’s response.”

  “You are missing the point.”

  “I do not believe I am. Cedric should have done right by the girl. Either married her or found another husband for her.”

  “Men find themselves in situations like that all the time. The banker overreacted. But how were we to know Cedric would sell off Emerson’s land right under his nose? Though it does show a certain gumption I’d heretofore thought was entirely absent.”

  “So you knew what Cedric had done.”

  “He’d bragged about it in a letter to your father. Fortunately, I burned it before you could get your hands on it. You never should have turned against your family, Irene. It was a mistake you’ll not be able to make twice.”

  “How could you take his side when you knew he’d behaved so dishonorably?”

  “Because he’s the heir. But we didn’t want another scandal, so your father’s man of business was tasked with running this Mr. Adams to ground. It was quite easy once you’d decided to whore yourself…”

  The matching Oriental vase, a crystal bowl and a delicate china figurine all toppled to the floor in quick succession.

  “Bastard!” said the dowager. Yet when Carter entered the room to investigate the commotion, all she told him was “Leave us and close the door.”

  Once the butler had left, Irene continued. “I beg you to do the right thing and give James his land back.”

  “Do not beg, love,” said James.

  The dowager laughed mirthlessly. “How amusing that you would call her ‘love.’ I assume the rumor is true? You plan to marry her?”

  “I look forward to it,” said James.

  “No doubt you’re counting on her large dowry. Well, you’ll not get a penny of it. She has been disowned. By me and the viscount.”

  James could feel Irene’s tension, but she was strong enough not to let it show.

  “I care nothing for a dowry,” said James. “I already have the prize. Now that I have told you our news, there is nothing else to discuss. If you ever wish to apologize to Irene, you can contact us at the Ridgeway estate in Wiltshire.”

  “I have a proposition for you, Emerson.”

  “I am not interested.”

  “I would not be so sure.” The old woman hesitated, as if considering her words. “I cannot get you your land back. But we can compensate you for it. Rather handsomely. All you have to do is walk away from Irene forever.”

  “Grandmother! What are you about?”

  “Do you really think we would allow a savage to be part of this family? An Indian bastard?”

  James held onto his temper…just barely.

  But Irene loosed hers with full force.

  “Do not ever say such a thing again!” said Irene. “She is a dear child and I love her as my own. You will not say such horrid things about her.”

  “It is interesting that you are the one defending the half-breed, while her father stands there with a curious look on his face. Perhaps he is more interested in getting his land back than he is having you for a bride.”

  “You have disgraced us all, Irene,” said her father, from the doorway. “I could not believe what you’d done when Mama told me. You’ll cost me a pretty penny to marry you off once we send Emerson on his way. But it’ll be worth it to be rid of you.”

  “Father,” said Irene. “You cannot mean this.”

  “I do. You’re no daughter to me anymore.”

  The dowager turned to James. “What say you? I’ll write out the contract now. We’ll have it ratified by our solicitor and yours. You could be on the next ship to America.”

  “I think we’d insist on it,” said the viscount.

  “Very well,” said James as he moved away from Irene. “I shall dictate the statement. Are you ready?”

  The dowager smiled, then moved past Irene in triumph. She removed a sheet of expensive parchment from the desk, then pulled out the viscount’s silver pen. “I am ready when you are.”

  “Very good. Then start ‘I, the Dowager Viscountess Ainsworth, do hereby swear that I am an evil bitch who has done an incredible injustice to my beautiful, honorable loyal granddaughter.’ The viscount can write his own letter where he admits to being ‘an abominable father not worthy of the treasure he has in his daughter.’ You’ve stopped writing, my lady. Was I going too fast? I’ll be more than happy to repeat any of it.”

  He turned to Irene. “My love, as you know, I have no farm. No money. I am indebted to you and my brothers financially. And I am indebted to you emotionally, as well. Please marry me. I am begging you. I am ashamed that I cannot give you the life you deserve but I simply cannot be without you.”

  Tears streamed down Irene’s face. “But you must do what is right for Anna. If they really will give you the money…”

  “That would only give me a full purse and an empty heart. And I am thinking of Anna, as well as myself. I am giving her a mother who will love her as I do.”

  “I do, James. I love her and you. I could not love anyone as much.”

  “What about any other children we may have?” He grinned at her.

  “I believe I shall have enough love for everyone.”

  They kissed.

  “Have a care for your father!” demanded the dowager. “This could kill him.”

  But one look at the viscount told Irene that if anything killed him, it would be the rage that he was just barely suppressing.

  “I hope that does not happen,” said Irene. “But it doesn’t change my decision.”

  “If you walk out of this house now, you can never come back,” said the dowager.

  “I am walking out of this house.”

  “You are no longer my daughter,” said her father.

  James pulled Irene closer. “The loss,” he said to the viscount and the dowager, “is yours alone.”

  “Get out of this house,” said the viscount. “Do not even bother to pack a bag. Let this whoremonger who consorts with savages provide for you. Or let him try.”

  “We will be rich in love,” said James. “A necessity your daughter has never known.”

  With that, he offered Irene his arm. They left the house of her birth and she never looked back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  They walked the short distance from Ainsworth’s house to Layton’s. James was facing a wholly uncertain future. He had no land, no hopes of a profession. His family had no money. His dear Irene had only the clothes on her back and those in her valise. Yet, he could not remember ever feeling this happy and free.

  The only thing missing was Anna. But they could leave for Wiltshire in the morning and they’d be able to give Anna – and the rest of his family – the good news.

  “You look quite pleased, James,” said Irene as she squeezed his arm.

  “I have the love of my life walking next to me. Why should I not be elated?”

  “This did not end the way you were hoping when you first appeared at my former home a few weeks ago.”

  “No, it did not transpire the way I thought it would. But I could not have imagined a better outcome.”

  “Can we leave for Wilshire in the morning? I cannot wait to see Anna. I hope the others don’t mind having yet another person move in.”

  “I daresay that will be almost as happy as I. But no one is as happy as I.”

  “I don’t know about that. I believe I am even happier. For now I will have a husband and a daughter.”

  They entered Layton’s house, only to hear Simon Chilcott speaking to Williams in the study.

  “I believe the day may get even better when I kick Chilcott out of this house,” said James, as he kissed Irene, then led her to the study. “It shan’t take but a moment.”

  They found Chilcott drinking more of Nick’s brandy.
<
br />   “Chilcott,” said James. “I thought I made myself clear.”

  Nick’s cousin held up a placating hand. “Do not worry. I will leave forthwith. I am only here to do you and your family a favor. There’s some gossip about your sister, Mrs. Pierce.”

  James stilled. “What of her?”

  “She’s been arrested for murder. Seems she finally knocked off that tradesman husband of hers. They’re holding her at Newgate.”

  *

  Please continue reading for a sneak peek at Winifred’s book….

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mrs. Winifred Pierce, once known as Lady Winifred, daughter of the late Earl of Ridgeway, sat huddled in the cold interrogation room in Newgate prison. They’d brought her straight there instead of stopping first at Bow Street, as was the norm, especially when the accused was a member of the ton.

  Her gown was covered in blood. Her hands were stained with it. Even her fingernails were encrusted with it. Both of her eyes were blackened, there was a cut on her cheek and her jaw was swollen. The way she was holding her arm against her mid-section gave every indication that at least one rib was cracked or broken. She was staring down at the table and had given little more than one-syllable answers for the three hours she’d been questioned.

  She said she didn’t know what had happened. She’d found her husband dead in his study, his throat cut. When the butler had walked in he’d sent for the police. There was no sign of forced entry in the house. Mr. Pierce had no enemies. And his family had been adamant that only one person might have motive to kill him: Mrs. Pierce

  And that’s what had made Sergeant Ambrose Fisk so suspicious. When a man is violently murdered in his own home, he has an enemy. And likely more than one.

  From the looks of Mrs. Pierce, there was little doubt in Fisk’s mind who’d beaten her so severely. She certainly would have motive to kill her husband. And whether the law said it was right or not, Fisk figured the bastard had it coming. But the woman before him looked too broken to have done such as act. Not to mention if those ribs hurt as much as he imagined they did, she wouldn’t have had the strength to carry out the attack.

  He’d been at the crime scene. The late Mr. Pierce had been a large man, with hands the size of ham hocks. His knuckles had been scraped and there were scars beneath that. Some abusers kept their violence hidden so their victims could be paraded about with no one the wiser. But, obviously, Mr. Pierce hadn’t cared.

  As bad as Mrs. Pierce’s injuries were – and they were bad – Fisk didn’t think they had made the scrapes on Pierce’s knuckles. He’d fought with someone else recently. Perhaps his killer. Perhaps someone else entirely. It was worth running that down before they did anything foolish like arrest Mrs. Pierce.

  Unfortunately, it was not his call to make. Inspector Dunlop was in charge. And if there was a man prone to foolishness, it was Dennis Dunlop.

  Fisk had quite happily served under Inspector Joseph Stapleton. Inspector Stapleton had even recruited Fisk to the force, when he’d been biding his time working menial jobs. Fisk had lost a leg in the war and it had been difficult to find work. But Inspector Stapleton had made him his sergeant and been a good friend to him. He still was, but he was recently married and splitting his time between his estate and working as a consultant to the Home Office.

  If Joseph were there, he’d see the inconsistencies of the circumstances. He’d have doubts about Mrs. Pierce’s guilt. And he wouldn’t have spent three hours questioning her when it was clear the lady was only becoming weaker. He’d get her a surgeon for no other reason than it tended to ingratiate a suspect to you.

  But Joseph wasn’t there.

  Fisk continued to observe from a darkened corner. A constable came in to speak to Dunlop.

  “A toff is demanding to see her. A Lord James Emerson.”

  Mrs. Pierce looked up and for the first time seemed almost hopeful.

  “What the devil is his interest in the case?” asked Dunlop.

  “Says ‘e’s her brother.”

  Mrs. Pierce nodded her head. It looked like it took a great deal of effort to do so. “May I see him?”

  Dunlop looked at her for a moment, then he turned to the darkened glass behind him where others often watched the interrogations. Fisk wasn’t sure who was back there, since the door had already been closed when he’d arrived. There was a slat in the wall where they could hear what was happening, but there had been no sound from that room. Now there came one knock on the glass.

  That meant no.

  “You can’t see no one, Mrs. Pierce,” said Dunlop.

  “When can I go home?”

  This time Dunlop walked over to the glass and put his ear against the slat, listening. Whatever was said made him pause. He whispered something back, then listened again. He nodded and returned.

  “You can’t go home. We’re holding you tonight. Here at Newgate.”

  “What?” Fisk rose from his seat. It was highly irregular to hold anyone but the most hardened criminals in Newgate awaiting arraignment. They rarely held peers and Fisk couldn’t remember the last time they’d held a female suspect who was a member of the ton. It wasn’t that toffs didn’t commit crimes. It was that they had powerful friends who could make life difficult for the police. It was usually only when the evidence was irrefutable that such measures were taken.

  “Why not release her into the custody of Lord James?” asked Fisk.

  “And have him spirit her out of the country? Absolutely not,” said Dunlop.

  “But it ain’t safe for a lady to be in Newgate overnight. You know that.” If one of the other prisoners didn’t kill her for her gown – bloodstained or not, it was worth money – she was likely to be assaulted by one or more of the guards.

  Something very odd was going on. And it didn’t sit well with Fisk.

  “Last I checked this wasn’t none of your concern,” said Dunlop. “I’m not your precious Stapleton here to listen to your theories. You’re the sergeant and you’ll do what you’re told. And I’m telling you to leave.”

  One of the constables came in to collect Mrs. Pierce for processing. Fisk reckoned he had upwards of an hour until she was taken to a cell, maybe more.

  Dunlop left the room and Fisk waited five minutes to make his exit. As he suspected, the door to the observation room was open and three toffs were in there with one of the magistrates. Two men and a woman. But he didn’t recognize any of them.

  Fisk walked through the dank corridor until he found a friendly face, a junior constable who’d also come up under Stapleton.

  “How’d you like a smoke?” asked Fisk.

  “Yer a lifesaver, sergeant.”

  Fisk handed him a cigarette he’d rolled earlier that day. Though he didn’t smoke himself, he’d learned long ago that tobacco loosened more tongues than liquor, and more reliably, as well.

  “Who are the toffs?” he said, motioning to the observation room.

  “Kin of the deceased. They hate the widow. Says she deserves to hang or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  The constable shrugged. “Just what I heard some of the fellows talkin’ ‘bout. Didn’t hear it meself. But they certainly seem to hate her.”

  “Is there a lot of blunt at stake?”

  “Too early to tell. You never know from appearances, but I reckon there’s got to be some blunt to get them that upset at the widow if she’s in line to inherit. Gotta get back to work. Thanks for the smoke.”

  Well that was that. Fisk wasted no time in getting out of the dingy maze of Newgate. He’d become adept at moving with speed despite his wooden leg. If Stapleton had been in town, he would have appealed to him. But with him in the country, there was only one place to turn.

  He had to ask a favor from someone very powerful.

  He hailed a cab and gave him an address in Mayfair, telling him to hurry. After a seeming eternity, he arrived. He ran up the steps to the imposing manor and rapped on the door.

  Moments later, the
butler opened it.

  “Sergeant Fisk,” the man said. “Welcome.”

  “I hate to bother him, but it’s urgent. Might be a matter of life or death.”

  The butler evaluated the situation in the blink of an eye, then instead of telling Fisk to wait there while he was announced, he simply said “Follow me, sergeant.”

  Fisk followed the butler upstairs, then surprisingly, into the family wing. The butler knocked on a door, then called within.

  “Your grace, Sergeant Fisk is with me. He is on a matter of urgency, possibly life and death. He requests an audience.”

  After a moment, Fisk heard a deep voice on the other side of the door.

  “I shall be ready directly. Just one moment, please.”

  Fisk waited, hoping he’d taken the best course of action in coming here. For if he had to start over, it would only delay matters. Finally, the voice on the other side bade them entrance.

  The door to the Duke of Lynwood’s dressing room opened. The duke was there, impeccably attired. Only three things indicated he had been interrupted while in the midst of something else. One was that his color was heightened. The second was that he was standing behind a chair. The third was that the Duchess of Lynwood was flustered. Her hair was mussed, her petticoats were showing on the right side and she looked like she’d been thoroughly tupped.

  Which Fisk was certain she had been.

  “Yer grace, yer grace,” he said, bowing to them both. “I am so sorry to interrupt you, but I fear Lady Winifred Pierce will lose her life this night in Newgate if I don’t have your assistance.”

  The duchess said “Oh, dear” and looked at her husband.

  The Duke of Lynwood said, “I am at your service, Sergeant. Tell me how I can help.”

  A DELETED SCENE FROM ALWAYS TRUE TO HER

  The romance between Victor and Maude is one of my favorite relationships. I wrote this scene in an earlier draft, but couldn’t really justify including it in the book. So, here it is as an extra. This took place when James and Irene were at the dower house and Anna was sick:

  Victor Stemple collapsed onto his wife, completely spent. He was careful not to squash her, though the way she was holding on to him with her legs wrapped around his and her arms clutching his back, it was all but impossible to create any distance between them.