Let Me Be The One

by Jo Goodman

  "Drink up," she said to him. She laid down the first card and nodded thoughtfully, not surprised to see that she had tapped into the powerful force of the Major Arcana. "A sacrifice..."

  Northam stared at the picture of an empty gallows with the noose prepared. He had an urge to slip a finger under his collar and stock and loosen the fit against his neck. He was very much aware that all those looking on had ceased whispering. "It is not death?"

  "Oh, heaven's no. You may ease your mind on that account. The Hanged Man can signify letting go or a reversal of current circumstances. Here I believe a sacrifice is to be made." She paused and added darkly, "Condemnation."

  He finished raising the snifter to his lips and drank the brandy with as much disregard for the fine taste as Madame Fortuna had shown. He glanced over his shoulder at South. "I am only condemned," he said, grinning. "Not doomed." Southerton, he thought, could have made an effort to return more than a wan smile. Beside him, Elizabeth looked as if she might faint. North turned back to Madame Fortuna. "My mind is eased. Perhaps you could say something that would ease others. Who condemns me?"

  Madame Fortuna took the top card from the deck and laid it over the Hanged Man.

  North stared at the Empress, that card that related to motherhood, abundance, and nature. The voluptuous figure oddly reminded him of the baroness, and he looked to Madame Fortuna, a question in his eyes.

  She said only, "A woman close to you."

  Southerton felt Elizabeth's fingers claw his sleeve again. He placed his free hand over hers and willed her to remain silent and unmoving.

  Though it pained him to do so, Northam asked with credible carelessness, "Are you being literal or figurative?" This had the desired effect of dispelling the pall that had settled over the drawing room.

  In response, Madame Fortuna turned over a third card, this one a horned figure. She placed it on top of the lovers. "I believe it is the devil you know."

  Northam had had enough. He started to rise.

  "Sit down, my lord."

  It was said so sharply and with such authority that Northam found himself firmly planted. This raised laughter from his audience, and he could not help but smile himself. "Very well. What else do you have for me, Madame?"

  She held up the next card so that others might see it at the same time as he. It was the Seven of Pentacles. "This not only signifies reward," she explained to everyone, "but a change in direction. Wealth, I think. A treasure, perhaps, but one that is not your own."

  Icy fingers began working their way up Northam's spine. He kept his voice even and schooled his features. "Explain yourself."

  "You have something that does not belong to you."

  A small vertical crease appeared between Northam's brows. "You will have to explain that as well."

  Madame Fortuna put aside the cards in her hand and fanned out the ones she had already placed on the table. The Hanged Man. The Empress. The Devil. The Seven of Pentacles. There was no mistaking the signs, and she could not fault her own interpretation. She saw that when her hand passed over the cards it was trembling. The cause was not difficult to know. She wished above anything that she could do differently by this man.

  She remembered how very young he had been, the sweet innocence in his face when he had asked her that outrageous question. He was older, certainly, and his dark cobalt eyes had long since lost their guileless appeal, but Bess Bowles did not doubt his fundamental decency. That basic character trait had not been altered. She had known of its existence two and twenty years ago and she knew it now. She would have protected him if the cards had fallen differently, but here, with this man above all others, she knew they did not lie.

  Against everything she would have wagered, Brendan David Hampton, sixth Earl of Northam, was the one known to all of the ton as the Gentleman Thief.

  "It is Lady Battenbum's necklace," she said. "It can be found in your trunk. There is a small pocket in the lining for valuables. That is where it has been secreted away."

  Northam's head snapped up. There was a buzzing between his ears that could not be solely explained by the frantic whispering going on at his back. "You are mistaken," he said with soft menace. But even before she shook her head and denied his words, he sensed that he was the one mistaken.

  "Oh, but you must be," Lady Battenburn said. She clapped her hands together just below her rounded chin and left them there in an attitude of prayer. "Why, you have not spoken to everyone. I was sure Lord Northam would not even be among the suspects. He's as rich as Croesus. Everyone knows that."

  Everyone did. While not one of the guests liked to think they were one of Louise's prime suspects, they let this small outrage pass and found their relief could mingle quite comfortably with pity for Northam's dilemma.

  Lord Battenburn approached the table. "I must agree with my wife, Madame. It is not possible."

  She shrugged. "Anything is possible."

  Northam regarded Battenburn without emotion. The baron did not seem to want to suggest the obvious solution to their problem. Asking to search the trunk would be a serious breach of trust in itself and posed potential embarrassment for all of them. Battenburn's silence forced Northam to make the offer himself. "I invite you to look for your lady's necklace among my things."

  Battenburn shook his head. "No. I will not have it."

  Northam did not think he imagined the noose was getting tighter. He glanced down at the cards fanned out before him to see if the rope's circumference had indeed shrunk.

  "Oh, but think of your reputation, my lord." It was Lady Powell, her hands steepled beneath her chin in a manner similar to Louise's.

  Northam had not seen so much piety outside the framed painting of a Renaissance Madonna. "I think it can only be enhanced by this, my lady." He came to his feet. "Tell me that you do not think it quite thrilling that I may be the Gentlemen Thief."

  Lady Powell's scarlet cheeks gave her away. "That is very wrong of you, Northam," she scolded. She looked to Southerton for assistance. "Tell him. He could be transported for this."

  Southerton wished she had not raised that particular specter before he'd had a chance to sort out what was happening. He tried to divine inspiration from Northam's expression and found it perfectly inscrutable. He had no idea what tack he might take to save his friend further embarrassment. In the end he decided to save him from transport. "That is only if the necklace is found," he said. "And I assure you, it will not be."

  Northam sighed. He was not certain of any such thing, but he appreciated that South couldn't know that. Trust South to offer a spirited but wholly unreliable defense.

  Battenburn fingered one of the crisp folds of his stock as he contemplated his options. "I suppose," he said finally, "that there is nothing for it but to have a look." He surveyed his guests and offered a tentative suggestion. "Perhaps we should have the trunk brought here."

  No one save Northam responded. "By all means. But in the interest of fairness, send two men to get it."

  "Of course. Southerton and Allen. Is that agreeable?"

  "It is." North was more certain than ever that it would not alter the outcome. He gestured toward the door. "Gentlemen?"

  South had gotten used to the pressure of Elizabeth's fingers against his arm. He did not realize at first what was halting his progress. He drew close to her long enough to surreptitiously disengage her fist. "It will be all right," he whispered, his lips barely moving around the words.

  Elizabeth stared at him, unblinking, willing herself not to show the depth of her distress. "No. No, it won't."

  There was no time to reason with her, even if there was a place. Allen was waiting. South gave her wrists a gentle squeeze before he turned.

  The wait was interminable. The guests watched Allen and Southerton leave the room and no one seemed to be able to look away from the doors while they were gone. The footmen stationed on either side of the entrance grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny to which they were subjected, but like Praetorian guard
s of Ancient Rome, would have fallen on a sharp object rather than relinquish their posts.

  Northam alone did not watch the entrance. He sat with one hip resting on Madame Fortuna's table and his other leg extended casually in front of him. It occurred to him that he was, perhaps, the most untroubled person in the room. Even the Gentleman Thief, unless he was entirely without conscience, would be having some qualms. Not that they would be enough to save him. He could not expect that the real thief would step forward to take his place, not when he had gone to so much trouble to put Lady Battenburn's necklace in his trunk. No, the Gentleman meant for him to take the blame.

  Northam sighed, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

  This was going to play hell with his mother's plans to marry him off.

  There was a stir in the gathering as footsteps approached. The doors were parted, and South and Allen walked into the room carrying Northam's leather-bound trunk between them. They set it on the floor in front of Madame Fortuna's table.

  "We haven't opened it," Lord Allen offered unnecessarily.

  Lady Battenburn joined her husband. "I should certainly hope not, else what would have been the point?" She quieted when Harrison placed his hand soothingly on her shoulder. She bit her lip instead of adding to the tension with inconsequential chatter.

  North gave a short nod to indicate to Southerton that he should open it. South lifted the latches and raised the lid. He stepped aside, offering the opportunity to explore the contents to Lord Allen. With some reluctance, Allen bent over the trunk and ran his hand along the lined lid. It was only a moment before he paused in his search, his fingers having dipped into a slit in the damask lining.

  "You've found something?" North asked. When Allen nodded, Northam went on. "You may as well bring it out for everyone to see."

  Three of Lord Allen's fingers slipped inside the lining and rooted for the object he had felt under his palm. It came out easily, and diamonds cascaded over his extended fingers like a sunlit waterfall.

  Not surprisingly there was a collective gasp. Northam felt all the attention riveted on him. He said to no one in particular, "I don't suppose it matters that I neither took the necklace nor hid it there."

  Batterburn cleared his throat. He plucked at his sleeve, removing an imaginary piece of lint as he considered how best to respond. "Can you prove it?"

  The answer came from a most unexpected quarter, at least as the guests would report it in subsequent accounts.

  Lady Elizabeth Penrose stepped forward. "Lord Northam cannot be the thief," she said calmly. "He was with me the morning it was stolen." In the event there was anyone who mistook her meaning, she added, "And all of the night before."

  Chapter 9

  There was nothing for it but that they should marry. The details of the event were left up to others. Southerton procured a special license on behalf of his friend. The baron spoke to the vicar and made arrangements for the use of the village church. Lady Battenburn pressed the cook to make preparations for a lavish wedding breakfast, brought in her London modiste to attend to Elizabeth's gown and trousseau, and personally selected the flowers to be cut for bouquets and garlands. It was left to North and Elizabeth to inform their respective families. Of necessity this news came to the Dowager Countess of Northam and the Earl of Rosemont by express post. Lack of time, rather than cowardice, dictated that there could be no visits before the event.

  The guests at Battenburn left on schedule, their regret at having to go somewhat mitigated by the fact that they were the advance guard of the most delicious on dit this year. They agreed to a person that the baron and baroness had provided a most diverting fortnight and were to be congratulated for so many memorable entertainments, particularly the revelations of the last night.

  The prospective bride and groom were permitted little time in each other's company. Neither of them objected to this dictate, finding they were not at all eager to discuss how they had arrived at such an end.

  Following dinner on the eve of their wedding, they walked side by side in the park at Battenburn. Behind them, at what he conceived was a respectful distance, strolled Southerton. He had raised mild objections to playing duenna, but no one thought his barn-door-closed-after-the-horse-was-out argument to be compelling.

  The crushed stone garden paths were bleached white as the long twilight gradually gave way to moonshine. Standing torches lighted the crumbling corners of the abbey ruins that bordered the western edge of the park. There was virtually no breeze, but the air was not heavy. More than forty varieties of roses lent their fragrance to the evening; the scent was delicate, not cloying. Occasionally a pheasant stirred in the bushes or a plump rabbit darted for cover.

  "I think I will make myself comfortable on this bench," Southerton announced. His voice echoed rather disconcertingly off the ruins. "In the event that anyone should want to know."

  Elizabeth managed a faint smile. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the path. "Poor Lord Southerton. This cannot be but an onerous task for him."

  "There are others more deserving of your sympathy than South." Northam meant for the words to be lightly spoken. Instead they came out stiffly, edged with reproof.

  "Yourself, you mean?"

  "You know I do not."

  "I assure you, I do not know it at all. Why should such a thing about your character be evident to me? You must allow that we are not so very well acquainted." Elizabeth's shoes crunched the stones underfoot. She felt one work its way between her leather sole and the welt. "In any event, were you in need of sympathy I would be of no inclination to offer it."

  Northam muttered something wholly unintelligible under his breath.

  "Just so," she agreed.

  He couldn't help it; he laughed.

  Elizabeth was not proof against that sound. She suspected it would always be the proverbial chink in her armor. She felt the tightness in her chest ease so that the next breath she drew required less effort. "Have you received a reply from the dowager countess, my lord?"

  "Will you not call me North?" he asked."Or Brendan?" When she said nothing, he sighed and continued. "No, my mother is much too busy arranging for her visit to Battenburn to spare time for correspondence."

  Elizabeth looked at him sharply. "You jest." But she could see that he did not. In profile his perfectly cast features were limned with moonlight. One corner of his mouth was tilted upward. "You do not mind that she is to come?"

  "It would do no good to mind it. She will have her way." He turned his head in Elizabeth's direction and glimpsed panic that she could not quite conceal. "I should like to allay your fears," he told her, "but I collect I could not. South gets on well with her; perhaps you would believe you worry over nothing if you heard it from him."

  "Lord Southerton did not force your hand in marriage. Your mother has no cause to think ill of him."

  Years under the command of Colonel Blackwood had taught Northam to choose his battles. He was not willing to engage in this one, at least at this time. "And your family?" he asked. "What have you heard?"

  Elizabeth felt the stone wedge its way under her foot. The discomfort gave her a point of focus and helped her answer with credible indifference. "My father has written to the baron. He will not be coming."

  "I see."

  "No, I don't think you do, but it is kind of you not to inquire further." She pretended interest in her silk shawl, adjusting the loose knot at her breasts. "Harrison has agreed to give me away."

  Northam had to strain to hear her. "Is that agreeable to you? Or to your father?"

  Elizabeth shrugged.

  Northam paused on the stone path. Elizabeth came to a halt a half-step in front of him. Her head was bowed and she did not look back. "No matter the circumstances of our wedding," he said, "I would not have you agree to anything that causes you discomfort."

  "Have a care, my lord. You cannot know the half of what causes me discomfort."

  He reached out and lightly touched her elbow. "Look at
me, Elizabeth." He waited, aware of the scent of roses, the flicker of the torchlight in her hair, and the slow thud of his own heart. He wondered what he would do if she did not turn and was glad he did not have to answer that now. The stones shifted softly as she slowly pivoted. "If you mean in bed, know now that I would have nothing from you that is not given freely. I want you to tell me that you know it will be your choice."

  She stared at him. His sincerity wrenched her heart and his naivety made her want to scream at him. She said quietly, "You know nothing at all of my choices."

  "Then tell me."

  "I cannot explain it to you. Suffice it to say, I will accommodate your every whim in our bedchamber. You need not concern yourself."

  Northam found he was actually entertaining the thought of striking her. He could see himself drawing back his hand and letting it fly, laying his palm smartly across her cheek. She would reel backward, probably stumble and fall, but he never once saw her drop her chin or raise an arm to protect herself. She would stare at him, not precisely defiant, but not resisting.

  She made him afraid sometimes. For her. For himself.

  "I don't hear anything," Southerton called from his position in the garden. He was stretched out negligently on the bench, his back wedged in one corner and his long legs extended diagonally into the path. He used an index finger to tip back the brim of his polished beaver hat and made a peripheral assessment of the sudden quiet. "What is toward? If it is kissing, one of you must demonstrate the presence of mind to kick up the stones a bit, as if you were still walking. I assure you, I can be fooled."