The Princess and the Pauper

by Alexandra Benedict

  “I’m afraid the damage to our reputations is done. You and I are alone in the study while our fiancés are in the ballroom with three hundred very curious members of high society.”

  His expression chilled her. She actually shivered under his icy stare.

  “I beg your pardon,” he drawled, his voice just as cold. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “I am blackmailing you.” She approached the desk, even as her heartbeat quickened. “If you do not give me what I want, I will confirm the suspicions about us, and our private rendezvous will be printed in every broadsheet.”

  For a moment, she thought he might rage, but he soon regained his composure and refastened his cuff link. He put away the hypodermic needle, securing it in a box, and placed the box inside a desk drawer. Her heart now pounded as he continued to gather his dress coat and pay her no more heed.

  She feared he might leave the room altogether, when at last he said offhand, “And what ‘suspicions’ might those be?”

  The pressure on her chest lifted. He was not as aloof as he pretended to be, and she pounced on his misgiving.

  “That I have ‘tender feelings’ for your lordship.”

  He sneered, slipping into the dress coat. “I trust no one suspects such a thing, Miss Wright. Not after your fiancé’s vulgar performance.”

  Her features dropped at the derision in his voice. Of course, she thought grimly. The audience would view any expression of passionate emotion as “vulgar,” even lewd.

  “I think it clear from his shameful performance, you are more his whore than his soon-to-be-wife, and you harbor no ‘tender feelings’ for me.” After buttoning his dress coat, Dresmond bored into her with his disdainful eyes. “I don’t know what game you are playing, Miss Wright, but I am not amused.”

  He rounded the desk, heading for the door.

  Heart in her throat, she threatened, “Are you willing to risk your engagement with Miss Harte?”

  He hardened.

  “I can adamantly deny a rendezvous took place or I can say nothing a’tall. And silence speaks plenty, my lord.”

  Slowly he turned away from the door and glared at her. “What do you want?”

  “A simple answer.”

  “And what is the question?”

  Her voice quivered. “I know Papa attempted to end our engagement. Why?”

  The muscles in her legs weakened, and she wondered if she had the strength to hear the truth. Crumpled inside her reticule was the letter from her father’s solicitor, confirming Papa had made a very unusual request, that months before his death, he’d wanted to break the marital contract between her and the earl.

  That letter condemned Dresmond. His motivation for killing her father was clear—the earl would lose a fortune. Combined with the suspicions of Dr. Snow, she had more than enough evidence to present to Scotland Yard. But there was one piece of evidence she would never learn from an investigation. Why had her father tried to end the engagement in the first place? He had desired above all else to secure her position in high society. And as the Countess of Dresmond, she would have achieved his lifelong ambition.

  The earl’s pale features flushed with crimson color. “Do you believe I would let you destroy my engagement to Miss Harte over the ranting of your mad father?”

  He advanced toward her.

  She backed away, positioning an armchair between her and the earl. “If you take another step, I will scream and draw every guest to this room.”

  He stilled. “You are as mad as your father.”

  It took all her will to keep from screaming. He had poisoned her father, pushed him into madness, and still scorned him.

  “Tell me,” she snapped. “I know he tried to end our engagement, and I know you tried to convince him otherwise.”

  He opened his mouth.

  “I’ve no patience for lies, Dresmond. I know you had tea every afternoon with Papa, inflating yourself and your estates, trying to convince him our marriage was mutually beneficial, but he expressed his doubts to you. Why?”

  “What do you want to hear?” he demanded. “Your father was mad. Mad! I don’t know anything about his ravings. I have kept his illness a secret out of respect to you both, but I will scream it before the other guests if you persist in this skullduggery.”

  “Tell me the truth and this ends!”

  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed.

  “Tell me . . . and I will leave you to your fate.”

  His hands fisted. “I do not know the reason behind his so-called doubts, and though I tried to convince him he was making a mistake, he persisted in breaking our engagement. He. Was. Mad.”

  Her eyes moistened and she choked on her tears. “No.”

  “Yes,” he gritted. “I tried to warn you, damn it, to save you from his ravings and reckless spending, but you would not listen then and put him into an asylum, just as you refuse to listen now.”

  “What ravings?”

  His hands went into the air in obvious frustration. “How can I make any sense of it? After his mind collapsed, he babbled all sorts of nonsense about remorse and guilt and bloody chimney sweeps.”

  Her heart almost stopped. “Chimney sweeps?”

  “Aye, that he had wronged you in some way, and he had to make it right, whatever ‘it’ was. Nonsense, I tell you.”

  No. Not nonsense. He might have been suffering from delirium at the time of his “ravings,” but he had made the decision to end the betrothal before he was poisoned, and . . . and that must have been the reason. Papa knew, thought Emily. He knew about her true feelings for Rees, her heartache at his loss, and he wanted to make it right.

  Tears spilled from her eyes, and a great weight lifted off her soul knowing Papa had loved her above all else, even his ambition. And he would have made it right, she was sure . . . if he hadn’t been murdered.

  She swallowed her tears before piercing the earl with an unforgiving glare. He sensed the change in her, for his brow dropped in consternation.

  A shadowed figure approached the door, but stilled, peering through the crack. She had never doubted Rees would come looking for her, and knowing he was there gave her strength to speak the long-denied truth.

  “I feel I should warn you,” she said in a biting voice, “about the inquest into my father’s death.”

  Dresmond’s expression turned stone-cold. “I don’t understand.”

  “I won’t mince words. The police believe my father was poisoned.”

  His expression remained unmoving, but she already knew he was not immune to her words, and though the investigation had yet to start, she would not lose the opportunity to destroy his world—as he had destroyed hers.

  “It has recently come to light Papa was poisoned with lead. His remains are to be exhumed, and a coroner in the legal medicine department will confirm the suspicion after an autopsy is performed. As lead gathers in the bones, the irrefutable evidence will still be there, even after all these years.”

  “And what has any of this to do with me?”

  “You were with Papa at the onset of his ‘illness,’ had tea with him every day until his death.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I am not suggesting anything,” she returned darkly. “I am accusing you of murder.”

  “You are mad,” he rasped.

  She opened her reticule and pulled out the crumpled paper. “I have a letter here from Papa’s solicitor, confirming Papa wanted to end our engagement before any symptoms of madness surfaced. He had asked about the legal ramifications of breaking the betrothal, and how much he would have to pay you to end the engagement. But the funds were not enough, were they? Not nearly the sum you needed to pay off your creditors and restore your estates.”

  “Madness,” he repeated.

  “And so you decided to poison him,” she resumed with vehemence. “You reasoned, if he died, I would never learn the truth of his intent to end the engagement, that I would honor the betrothal contra
ct. I, a rich heiress, would marry you as planned, and all your debts and troubles would be at an end.

  “But you miscalculated, didn’t you? First—” she lifted one finger “—Papa went ‘mad’ from the effects of the poison and spent every penny in confusion and distress.”

  “Outrageous.”

  “And second—” she lifted another finger “—I refused to listen and send him to an asylum. I refused to take control of his estate and stop the reckless spending. I refused to publically humiliate him, to have him declared insane. And so the money was lost, anyway.”

  All lost. Because Papa had tried to make her happy.

  She approached Dresmond with intent. “What would you have done if I hadn’t released you from our engagement? If, pauper that I was, I demanded you honor your word and marry me? Would you have poisoned me, too?”

  He said nothing.

  “Yes, of course you would have killed me. I wasn’t an heiress anymore, and you needed an heiress . . . you still need an heiress.”

  More quiet.

  “Your silence speaks plenty, my lord. And now, as promised, I will leave you to your fate.”

  As she headed toward the door, Dresmond lunged for her with a wild cry.

  She sidestepped him, sending out a startled shout of her own just as the door burst open and Rees entered the room, revolver in hand. He aimed the weapon at a dumbfounded Dresmond, then shifted his tempestuous gaze to her.

  In a voice void of feeling, Rees queried, “Are you satisfied?”

  With a drawn and shaky breath, she nodded. “I am.”

  Pocketing the revolver, Rees crossed the room and took her by the hand. Without pause, he dragged her from the study and into the corridor, where a spooked, pale-faced Isobel stood.

  Emily wanted to say something to the stunned girl, but Rees grabbed Isobel by the arm, too, and steered both women away from the study. He finally stopped near the ballroom, far away from Dresmond, and released them.

  A grief-stricken Isobel stared straight at Emily.

  “Miss Harte, I’m sorry.” A knot formed in Emily’s belly. “I did not mean to hurt you, but you deserved to hear the truth about your fiancé’s character. And now you can protect your own father from greater harm.”

  “Papa is dying from Heine-Medin disease,” she said in a distant voice. “He is a paralytic. And soon he won’t be able to breathe. H—he contracted the illness before we ever met the earl.”

  Isobel’s eyes flitted, as if she might swoon. Rees braced her, preventing her fall. Soon servants appeared and circled the weak girl, fanning her while her mother was summoned from the ballroom. In minutes, mother and daughter were secured in a carriage, speeding away.

  Emily turned toward Rees, his expression inscrutable, but she felt his accusation nonetheless.

  “I want to go home,” she whispered.

  And fled from the house.

  ~ * ~

  As soon as the carriage reached the brownstone mansion, Emily bounded up the stairs.

  Grey followed her—straight to his bedroom. For a moment, she looked around, flustered. He turned the key in the lock before she realized her mistake and escaped to her own room.

  “Why?” he demanded, pocketing the key. “Why didn’t you tell me about the letter? The motive for murder?”

  Restless, she paced, her train swishing across the floor. “I didn’t trust you with it.”

  “I see.” He removed his dress coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. A week ago, you believed I had murdered your father. Why the charade at the ball, then? Why risk your neck if you had enough evidence to present to the police?”

  “I didn’t risk my neck. I knew you would come for me.”

  “You threw me to the blasted wolves,” he snarled. “How could you know I’d untangle myself from the crush in time to save you?”

  Even now, his heart pounded with fear—fear he wouldn’t reach her in time, fear he’d lost her forever.

  “Because I trust you, Rees!”

  She rattled him with her contradictions. Mistrust, then trust. Mistrust, then trust. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I do trust you, Rees. I trust you to keep your word, to keep me safe.” She pulled off her gloves, tossed them to the floor and twisted her fingers. “Trouble is, I needed to be alone with the earl.”

  “Why? And why bring Miss Harte to the study? She was at my heels, said you asked her to join you in the study after the concert.”

  “To hear the truth, of course.”

  “But the earl didn’t poison her father.”

  “No, he poisoned mine! She still deserved to hear it. He’s a fiend! The world deserves to hear it!”

  She gasped, grappling for the laces at her backside.

  “What is it, Emily?”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  Grey moved across the room in a shot. He pushed her fumbling fingers away and swiftly unfastened the laces, renting the corset. She clutched the front of the dress, holding it in place, and breathed swift and shallow.

  As soon as she regained her composure, he charged, “You didn’t have to expose the girl to that ghastly spectacle. She would have heard the truth when Dresmond was arrested for murder.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Wanted revenge.”

  “No.”

  “I think you did, princess.”

  “I wanted justice!”

  “You wanted to destroy the earl’s world as he had destroyed your world. Miss Harte, even I, were inconsequential. I know you well, Emily. I even understand your rage.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You didn’t care, you mean.”

  “Rees, I had to know,” she cried.

  “Know what?”

  “Why Papa tried to end the engagement.”

  “You could have done that without involving the girl.”

  “She will survive. If I survived, she will survive.”

  “Not everyone is as strong as you, Emily.”

  She let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t feel very strong.”

  “You are,” he affirmed. “More than you know.”

  Her lips trembled.

  He looked away, aching to hold her in his arms. “And does it matter? After all these years, does the reason why your father tried to break the contract even matter?”

  “Yes, it matters. His reason for ending the betrothal changed everything, set everything into motion. Aren’t you the least curious?”

  No, thought Grey, he wasn’t the least curious. But he kept his indifference private. He wanted nothing more than to put the murder of Augustus Wright in the past. The man had already taken everything precious from Grey—his grandfather’s violin, Emily . . . and now Emily again.

  Even from the grave, her father conspired to keep them apart. Emily would never forgive him for unearthing the truth about her papa’s death. And now that the ordeal was over, the killer unmasked, their time together was also at an end.

  “Rees?”

  She was relentless, and he finally surrendered. “Fine. Why?”

  “I told you once Papa suspected we were—”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “He wanted to make things right, Rees. He wanted to break my engagement with the earl . . . so I could be with you.”

  He turned back, looked at her dead-on. “Horseshit.”

  “It’s true, I know it.”

  “I was a bloody ‘chimney sweep,’ not a titled lord. Why would your father break your engagement to a peer of the realm?”

  “He loved me.”

  “And he wanted you to be a lady, to have power.”

  “He loved me more.”

  Grey almost bit out “horseshit” again. “Emily—”

  “Listen, Rees. He wanted me to be a lady because he thought it would make me happy. It was his greatest ambition. I wasn’t accepted by society as a child, but as a titled lady, I would live among them, be one of them.”
<
br />   And Wright would live among them, be one of them. The miser would not give up such an advantage to see his only child married to a ‘chimney sweep,’ however much he loved her.

  “He would never let you marry a servant.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” she agreed. “But you weren’t a servant anymore, remember? I read news of your rising fame as a musician in every broadsheet. Papa would have seen the same articles. He would have known you were a talented, celebrated violinist.”

  She whispered, “And he would have known I cared for you. I—I grieved after you left. I couldn’t hide my feelings from Papa, though I tried, but . . . he knew. He asked me once about the violin, the one he’d crushed. I told him the truth, that your grandfather had made it for you. He said nothing, turned away, but he must have realized he’d made a mistake.”

  Grey suddenly felt as if he couldn’t breathe. She had grieved for him? Her father had felt remorse? “No.”

  “I know he called you the ‘chimney sweep,’ but only because he suffered from madness. He always admired you, Rees, for taking on your grandfather’s debt. He might have come around—”

  “No! His ‘heart remained true,’ even in his madness.”

  “You are twisting Dr. Snow’s meaning. He was talking about Papa’s love for me.”

  “And your father’s hate for me.”

  “Then why would he try to break the betrothal?” she demanded. “If you’re so sure he hated you, if you’re so sure he desired power above all else, why did he try to give it up?”

  “He found you a better match. A duke, perhaps.”

  “No, there was no other suitor. Here. Read the solicitor’s letter yourself.” She pulled a crumpled paper from her reticule and shoved it into his hands. “Papa wanted to end the engagement because he wanted me to be happy—with you.”

  Grey wouldn’t even look at the letter. Five years ago, he had stumbled from their house filled with bitterness and pain. His own wounds had never healed, it seemed, or he wouldn’t be in such agony now.

  “But he didn’t end the engagement,” he said, voice grated.

  “No,” she whispered, hurt in her eyes. “The earl tried to persuade him otherwise. He put doubt in Papa’s mind. And then poison in his body. Papa was in great pain and confusion. He didn’t know what he was doing—or thinking—after that. But I know.” She thumped her breast with her fist. “If he hadn’t suffered from delirium, he would have broken the betrothal. And you and I would have been together.”