by Lisa E. Pugh
Instinctively, he moved to join her. A policeman’s hand came down on his shoulder, restraining him. He halted and watched her with admiration in his eyes.
Maggie, her head bandaged and her pale face bruised, stood leaning against the railing. A crutch—his old crutch—was propped under one shoulder. One arm, heavily bandaged, was held stiffly against her chest. Her handbag, which they had recovered from her car that first day, hung over her wrapped wrist. A cast encased her ankle. She was dressed in his mother’s thick Victorian dressing gown over an equally old-fashioned nightgown. Louise, fidgeting nervously, stood beside her, one hand holding her charge's elbow.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the maid explained. “She heard the commotion and voices and got very upset. After listening for a moment, she grabbed her bag and stumbled past me. She refused to return to bed. I didn’t want to try to force her back, afraid I might injure her further. So I got the crutch and came with her.”
“What are you doing?” Margaret insisted. “Let him go at once.”
Swaying unsteadily, she pushed herself off the balustrade and leaned on the crutch. Louisa slipped under her charge’s bandaged arm, rested a steadying hand on her back and helped her limp down the stairs. Together with the unwieldy crutch, the servant’s added support allowed Maggie to descend slowly, painfully, and with great effort.
As he watched her hobbling down, Christopher had never felt more proud of anyone in his life. She left her sickbed to help him. He was both honored and humbled by her selflessness.
Teresa closed her eyes for a split second, a voiceless oath on her lips. Why wouldn't the bitch just die when she was supposed to? Why did she have to be a thorn in the sides of her betters?
Gathering her composure with an effort, the true lady of the manor sidled to the stairs and stalked toward the infuriating interloper with a concerned smile. “Oh, Margaret, darling, I’m so glad you’re all right!”
At her approach, the coward stumbled back and held her handbag in front of her like a shield. “Keep away from me. Someone keep her back!”
Sweet, ever conscientious Lara rushed forward only to be stopped at the base of the stairs by Constable Daniels. “Mags, what’s wrong?”
Hampered by her crutch and the cumbersome cast on her ankle, that woman scrambled awkwardly up a few steps and turned to face her enemy. “Just keep that woman away!”
“Miss Houseman,” the inspector ordered firmly. “Please descend those stairs. Now.”
Teresa stopped her approach. She didn’t want to openly defy the police. She had more important things to do. Still, the wait was galling. With barely controlled frustration, she waited. She did not retreat.
“Get away from her, Teresa,” Christopher warned, a toothless tiger roaring. “Get away, or I swear to God…”
He strained against his guards but did not openly fight them. She knew he would never do that. He would not force them to use handcuffs. Dear Lord Yawron, always so predictable.
Teresa gave him a challenging, disdainful look that said it all. He could not reach her if he tried. The police would see to that. Even if he were only delayed, that time would be all she needed. She knew she was completely in command here.
“What are you going to do with Chr—Lord Yawron?” the hussy asked Inspector Matthews.
Her quick correction made Teresa smile. Whore Taylor knew not to call him by his Christian name. The girl does learn, apparently.
“Why are those men restraining him?” the wench asked, moving closer to the handrail to get a clear view. Her movements were halting and unsteady.
Teresa’s eyes narrowed as she thought quickly. So, the tramp’s balance wasn’t good? Excellent.
Inspector Matthews looked distinctly uncomfortable. “He’s under suspicion for your kidnapping.”
“What?” she cried.
“Don’t worry,” Teresa added, taking another step closer to her. “We’ll make sure he can’t hurt anyone else.”
“I think the only one he ever hurt was you, and it wasn't physically either,” Margaret snapped and then turned to the crowd. “If you really want to know who did this or this”—she pointed to her face and her arm—“you have to look no further than Teresa Houseman.”
“What do you mean?” Teresa scoffed, the picture of innocence. “You’re delirious!”
“Am I? Then who gave you that bruise on your side, or the scratches on your face and neck that you’ve taken such care to cover with cosmetics.” Leaning against the balustrade, she prodded Teresa’s ribs lightly with her crutch.
White-hot fire exploded through her bruised side, a memento the tire-iron left behind. Teresa gasped and jumped away. Damn the bitch!
Margaret leaned over stiffly and whispered to Louise. Nodding, the servant left her charge and stepped up to the other woman. “Excuse me, Miss Houseman.”
Teresa turned to the maidservant, frowning in suspicion. “What do you want, girl?”
Quickly bracing Teresa’s head with one hand, the maid rubbed roughly across her left cheek and neck. Teresa hissed. Red lines appeared as wounds were reopened.
Struggling, Teresa slapped the maid's face hard and swore at her. How dare she assault a blue blood like that? Teresa spat and shoved her away.
Louise blinked and staggered but did not respond. She didn’t look upset or offended. She had obviously succeeded in her task. With hypocritical politeness, she grasped Teresa's arm and spun her to face the crowd.
“It was a cat!” Teresa replied, desperately trying to find an explanation. “Lara, you believe me. Tell them.”
Lara backed away slowly, shaking her head, a look of shocked betrayal on her face. “I… I… Teresa?”
“The feline had a very wide claw span, by the look of it,” Brenlaw remarked, stepping nearer, “almost bear-sized. It’s a miracle you escaped with your life if the cat was proportional to its paw.”
“And I have further proof,” Margaret continued.
What else could she have? How much worse can this get? Teresa had to end this before it got completely out of hand.
Brenlaw marveled at Miss Taylor’s composure as she faced down the woman who had so viciously attacked her. The young lady had appeared like an angel above the crowd, showing anxiety toward his lordship. No woman would do that for a man who kidnapped and assaulted her. If anyone could turn the tide in his lordship's favor, it was her.
Balancing precariously on one foot, supported only by the crutch and the railing, Miss Taylor dug into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I received this the other night, one of many I’ve found pushed under my door in the last few weeks. Shall I read it to you? ‘Margaret Taylor, you damned barefaced slut. A London tart is a pure saint compared to you…’ ”
The people below gasped at the shocking language. Even Brenlaw could not help flinching, a jolt running through him. Did she say this was one of many such letters?
The Inspector strode to the base of the stairway. “Miss Taylor, I would like to see that letter if you please.”
She held up her hand. “There’s more. ‘You deserve to be cut open on the village green, so that others may spit upon your entrails. You deserve to be violated until you bleed.’ ”
“Oh good Lord,” his lordship muttered, appalled. “All this time… letters like that… and she never said a word!”
The crowd was equally horrified. Murmured conversations spread, and the tide of opinion wavered. The mob turned from Brenlaw and his master to watch the drama above unfold.
Lara’s eyes widened. “Teresa!”
“It’s not true, Lara. I swear to you, it’s not true!”
Continuing up the stairs, the policeman ordered, “Miss Taylor, that's enough. Just bring that down to me.”
“Oh, but this is the best part. And it proves Christopher Tobias didn’t write any of the messages I received. ‘If every man in town had his turn, you could not be a more stinking whore than you are now. Don’t see him again, bitch, or you will regret it!’ �
� She gazed down on the people below, her face glowing in triumph. Then calm as you please, she handed the letter to the approaching officer.
The Inspector glanced at it and scowled. Curling his lip in disgust, he stepped behind the alleged author. “Miss Houseman?”
“I have nothing to say, Inspector. Not in front of these cretins,” Teresa remarked.
Miss Houseman’s face was set in stone, but her blue eyes blazed at the person who had unraveled her carefully laid plan. Margaret, still weak, rested her weight on the rail and grinned. The older woman quivered with anger. Troubled by the look in Miss Houseman’s eyes, Brenlaw moved toward the stairs, his police guard now more of an escort.
Not wishing to sound too vengeful in front of her neighbors, Margaret spoke only loud enough for the Inspector and Teresa to hear. “You’re going to hang, you bitch! If you had killed me outright and quickly, your plan might have worked. But you couldn’t. Your malicious little heart wouldn’t let you. You had to take your time. You had to enjoy it.” Teresa met her eyes coldly and said nothing. Margaret continued, “Well, Teresa, you won’t get a second chance at me.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Teresa growled. She turned and took a step down with her right foot. Suddenly, she pushed off her left foot and swung around, hitting Margaret on the side of the head.
VVincent Matthews caught Miss Houseman before she could attack further, but he was too late. The woman had succeeded in her task. Weak and dazed, her already injured victim slipped over the rail.
“Maggie!” Lord Yawron cried, rushing towards the staircase. The policemen did not hold him back this time, releasing him when he lunged for the stairs.
As she plunged over the edge, Miss Taylor threw out the hand of her good arm. Her fingers found the wood they sought, firmly grasping the banister. A moment later, her body collided with the paneling beneath the staircase. The breath was knocked out of her on impact.
Her free fall stopped abruptly. She shrieked, gasping and closing her eyes for a moment. Blood began to seep into the sleeve of the nightgown. The sudden lurch must have strained every muscle and pulled open every covered wound. Yet she held on tightly.
Vincent quickly handed Teresa to one of his deputies and rushed to the railing. Reaching through the poles, he grasped the dangling woman’s wrist. “I've got you.”
“Someone call the doctor!” Lara shouted. “One way or the other, we’ll need him here.”
The maid, Louise, ran to the upstairs telephone extension. Brenlaw broke free from his own guard and dashed up the steps two at a time. Stopping a step above Vincent’s position, he reached for Maggie's forearm. His grip helped alleviate some of the strain. Vincent was able to get a better grasp on her wrist.
“Give me your other hand!” Brenlaw called.
“I can’t… I can't lift it! The pain… I can't hold on… I’ll have to drop!”
Struggling to keep his hold on her wrist, Vincent shook his head sharply. “It’s too high; you’ll break your neck!”
As he saw her hand sliding through Vincent's blood-slicked fingers, Brenlaw swore vividly in a very un-butler-like fashion. “Damn it, miss! Hold on!”
“Can’t… can’t help it!" she gasped. "It's the only way!”
She closed her eyes and let go. Without her help, Vincent and Brenlaw lost their grip. Both cursed vividly as her fingers brushed their palms. A split-second later, there was a heavy crash and a smash of glass.
Chapter 25
Hell and damnation!
As Margaret dangled from the banister, agony coursed through her body like lightning. Every swing and kick, every movement was pure searing torment. Warm blood dripped over her skin, a thick sticky fluid.
She could not raise her bandaged arm to help support her weight. She could not pull herself back onto the staircase either. Unable to hold on, she could only try to control her fall.
She didn’t look down. She didn’t dare. She knew if she did, she’d lose her nerve.
Perhaps she would not hurt herself too much when she hit the floor. Were there not ways of landing from such a height that were not fatal? Not that she really had another choice.
Stilling her twitching legs, she shut her eyes and let her fingers slip from the polished wood. Both the men above her swore graphically. Slowly, the hands holding her wrist and arm lost their hold.
Falling, falling, falling. How long did she have to wait for impact? The distance from banister to floor was relatively short, but the plummet seemed to last forever.
The beauty and pain of the last few weeks played like a frenetic film in her mind. Flowers and spilled offal, sunshine and storms, a shared song and a vicious rage—it was a montage worthy of The Battleship Potemkin.
Yet, it was the last thing she saw that repeated the most. Just before she released her grip on the banister, she glanced up. Flanked by two policemen, Teresa grinned with exultation. Her main prey might have escaped her, but her rival had not.
The realization of Teresa's victory galled her. After all the hard work her rescuers did to save her life, it wasn’t going to be enough. The bitch had won!
What would happen now? Teresa was such a pretty little liar. Could she convince others that the fall was an accident? Would she use her influence and money to escape justice?
And what about Christopher? He had been so desperately worried about her. When she was so ill, he had tended to her better than any nurse.
The things he whispered to her while she slept revealed a deep loneliness and an abiding need for her. Would he be able to move on if she died? Her sweet earl did not deserve a wretched life alone.
Abruptly, Margaret felt strong arms catch her, holding her inches from the floor. At the same instant, a loud crash of wood, a clang of metal, and an explosion of broken glass and porcelain boomed through the room.
Her savior shifted her carefully. He supported her on his knee, removing his arm from under her legs gently. His free hand, shaking, brushed the hair from her face. A hoarse terrified voice called her name gently, asking her to look at him.
She lay there for a moment, her head spinning. The reversal of fortune shocked her, leaving her in a daze. Suddenly aware she was still alive, she opened her eyes.
The worried ruined face of Lord Christopher Tobias filled her vision. His complexion was blanched, his skin taut. He trembled, and his breath heaved. His beautiful blue eye stared, dilated and wide.
When her clear gaze met his, he gulped and grinned in relief. He closed his eyes, jaggedly exhaling a fervent thankful prayer. A tremor ran through him, and he quivered like a released bowstring. As if suddenly exhausted, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Christopher?” she croaked.
He cried out at the sound of her voice and embraced her suddenly, fiercely. Gasping and choking, he buried his face in her hair. A single laugh escaped his lips. In tone, it resembled the caw of a strangled and slightly hysterical crow.
“Are you all right, Maggie, my darling?” He asked softly at last. Lifting his head, he gazed down on her with moist eyes.
He studied her face with such concern and tenderness, she almost wept. She fought the impulse because she sensed that once she started, she would not stop for a very long time. And if she broke down, he might not be far behind. She could not let him do that in front of so many people. It would be too humiliating.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Sighing, she nodded and offered him her hand. He pulled her up gently, bracing her back and damaged arm.
She looked around. A low, heavy curio cabinet lay broken a few feet away. All the objects within it were smashed. He must have knocked the whole thing aside in his rush to reach her.
Once she was standing on her good leg, leaning on him for support, he instinctively turned his damaged countenance away. His cheeks flamed bright red. He winced, gritting his teeth, and shuddered.
He had made the decision to come out of the shadows. She had seen him gather the courage and stare them all down. It had
been awe-inspiring to watch, and her admiration of him soared at that moment. However, confronting the whole village was one thing. She apparently was something else again.
She placed her hand gently on his jaw and turned his face to hers. “Thank you, Christopher. You saved me… twice.”
“You're more than welcome,” he muttered roughly, his glance still averted.
Slowly she caressed the scars. He didn’t move, frozen for a moment. Without objection, he let her examine the damage. He was stone still, barely breathing. He waited for her verdict with an expression like a man facing the hangman's noose.
“My dear Christopher,” she murmured. “You're one of the kindest, gentlest, truest, and most respectful men I have ever met. You gave of yourself selflessly, providing what I needed regardless of the cost. Twice, you rescued me in my hour of need.”
“Maggie…” he began.
With a gentle shush, she put her finger to his lips. He fell silent with a resigned nod. He obviously believed whatever determination she was going to make had already been decided. She knew he would accept her sentence, whatever it might be.
She smiled slightly, her fingers still tracing his maimed face. That was her Christopher, so accepting, so sincere, so foolishly pessimistic. “My brave and honorable Lord Yawron, my sweet and insecure earl, to me you can never be anything but beautiful.”
He grasped her exploring hand and, turning his head, kissed her palm fervently. Leaning close, she brushed her lips across his marred cheek and whispered, “I love you.”
With a cry, he clasped her to him as tightly and desperately as a starving man holds a cup of soup or a thirsty man a glass of water. His whole frame shook. A ragged sob escaped his lips, a single word breaking free, “Christ!”
“Careful, my lord,” she remarked, with a sharp inhalation. “Not so close.”
He quickly loosened his hold, but only a little. He seemed loath to release his grip as if afraid she might slip through his fingers. Trembling, he stood still as he fought to regain his composure. She remained pressed against him, her ear listening to his racing heart.
