“No. Why? Do you believe she did?”
“Most certainly not,” Charles roared, his anger getting the better of him. “How dare you come here with these accusations! I will have you removed from your station and you shall never work again for you are clearly the worst constable to go by the name.”
“No need for all that,” Constable Marsh smiled. “Since the idea is so farfetched, there can be no harm in my asking her some questions, can there? Then I can be on my way and report my duty done in having explored every clue I have found.”
“What blasted clue?” he demanded.
“It seems the only witness I have is a man by the name of Thomas. He worked for a rather unsavory establishment by the name of Madame Annette’s, which your father liked to frequent. This particular establishment catered to a rather unseemly appetite that some gentlemen cultivate, namely young girls.”
“How dare you,” Charles said his face growing red with anger. His words however seemed to have no affect on the Constable as he continued as if uninterrupted.
“This Thomas informed me that on the night in question he helped your father catch a young boy whom they then transported to this flash house where your father was killed. It is this young boy I believe who killed your father.”
“Again, what has this to do with my sister?”
“Thomas heard your father call the boy Georgiana.”
Charles stared at Constable Marsh a moment, and then laughed.
“Yes, it is rather unbelievable, is it not?” Constable Marsh said. “Still, I am required to question your sister.”
“And you believe the word of this man who is probably a criminal himself?”
“Of course not. But this man produced a name. Your sister’s name no less. ”
“And you have a motive, I suppose?”
“Ah yes, you see that is where my questions come in. But if your sister is, as you say, paralyzed, what can a few questions do but clear up the matter entirely?”
“Indeed,” Charles said. “You do realize the sheer madness of your accusation, don’t you? Apart from the fact that my sister is paralyzed, how would she find her way to Madame Annette’s? Then there is the fact that my father was a man in perfect health. I do not believe a mere girl could easily overpower him.”
“All good questions,” Constable Marsh said nodding. “But still I fear my curiosity will not allow me to rest until I have settled the matter.”
“If you persist,” Charles said. “I shall see that she is brought down.”
Constable Marsh nodded and returned to studying the portrait again. Charles left the drawing and closed the door behind him. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the banister and looked up, wondering if he was doing the right thing. The minute the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it again. The Constable’s accusations were completely preposterous. Yet Georgiana’s face was covered in bruises and her explanation for them made little sense. What would the Constable make of the bruises?
***
He took the stairs two at a time, and knocked on her door, waiting for a reply. Then he entered to find her sitting before her looking glass as her maid brushed her hair.
“Charles,” she smiled. “You are real. I had wondered if I dreamt it.” He moved forward and took the hand she held out to him. He smiled but it was a strained smile and she noticed it immediately. “What’s the matter?”
He looked at the maid and she gave a quick curtsy, and then left, closing the door.
“Constable Marsh is downstairs and he insists on asking you questions,” he said and watched her reaction carefully, but she only smiled at him.
“Is that all,” she said. “By the look of you, I thought it must have been dire. Please, go downstairs and tell him I will appear as soon as I am ready.”
He hesitated, his eyes on the yellowing bruises.
“Don’t worry, Charles,” she smiled. “I will take care of it.”
He left but the feeling of unease remained. Charles waited in the drawing room for her with Constable Marsh, the two men doing their best to ignore one another. Finally, the door opened and a footman carried his sister into the room while another brought her wheelchair. She was carefully placed in it, and Charles studied her, realizing suddenly why it had taken so long for her to come downstairs.
The bruises that had covered her face only an hour ago were gone. Her hair was once again long, as her maid had fixed hairpieces to it, and the long chestnut strands were beautifully arranged around her face. She wore some make-up around her eyes to emphasize their shape and her lips were slightly rouged. The effect was a soft feminine picture of beauty and innocence.
“Constable Marsh,” she said, her voice soft and sweet. “I understand you have some questions for me.”
Charles turned to the Constable to see him study his sister closely. He approached and came to stand directly in front of her.
“I understand from the servants that the night of your father’s death you quarreled with him?” he asked. “What was it about?”
“I believe, Constable, that if you had been able to discover a quarrel existed then you would know what it was about as well.”
The Constable smiled. “You were not pleased with the match your father made for you.”
“No, I was not.”
“It was, in fact, not the first time you quarreled with him.”
“No,” she said. “It is no secret that my father and I did not understand each other well.”
“In fact you had tried on two occasions to run away.”
Charles turned to look at his sister surprised by this statement.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?” Constable Marsh asked.
“Because she is willful, and means to send me to an early grave,” her mother said as she entered the drawing room, her face thunderous. “What, may I ask, is the meaning of this?”
“Ah, Lady Wyndham,” Constable Marsh said. “Do join us.”
“Do not dare to presume so upon my good nature or I will have you removed immediately,” she said, her voice icy. “This is my house, and as such, you are here on my authority. Now, for what purpose do you attend us?”
Constable Marsh seemed suddenly less sure of himself, and Charles smiled to see him even slightly uncomfortable under his mother’s frigid stare.
“I wish to know the reason of Miss Wyndham’s unhappiness.”
“She is unhappy because she is female, and as such forced to conform to propriety and etiquette against which she is in constant opposition. It has long been a struggle for Georgiana to act appropriately and her rebellion has caused much strife in this family. She is willful and spoilt and given to the overly dramatic. Her need for constant attention has caused her to be careless with her own person and she is, therefore, as you see, paralyzed for her own wickedness. And all this, Constable Marsh, is absolutely none of your business.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Wyndham, but it is my duty to ascertain certain facts in my line of work.”
“Your line of work is to find criminals, Constable Marsh, and not to harangue the good people of the upper classes. I will remind you not to forget your station.”
“I beg your pardon, m’lady,” he said slowly, his face turning a shade of red. “I trust you were home the night your husband was killed and can verify your daughter’s presence here?”
Charles had never seen his mother turn that particular shade of purple before. He glanced at his sister to see her equally fascinated by the performance being played out before them.
“Constable Marsh,” she said, her voice cold enough to freeze hell itself. “I trust you have not taken complete leave of your senses, and have some self-preservation left. I will ignore the implication if you leave this house immediately and never return.”
His confidence clearly shaken, still he insisted. “You were home that night and can verify her presence?”
“Yes,” Lady Wyndham said evenly. “My daughter was
home and I sat next to her bed, nursing her, as she was ill that night. Now get out.”
Constable Marsh turned to Georgiana and she smiled at him sweetly. Then he gave a small nod and left the drawing room, closing the door quietly behind him.
His mother turned to Georgiana and gave her such an open look of hatred that Charles himself recoiled from it. His sister, however, seemed not affected by it at all and only smiled at her mother. Then Lady Wyndham left the drawing room, and Charles found himself alone with his sister.
“Georgy,” he said softly using his childhood name for her. “He is for bedlam, right??”
“Completely,” she said smiling. “I would never have stood that close to Mother when she is that cross.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, but she remained silent, only raising an eyebrow at him. “Of course, what an idiot of a man to even suspect you. You are paralyzed.”
“And a girl,” she said. “Which is worse than being paralyzed and far more hopeless for what can I do after all? Still, I suppose I am flattered.”
“Flattered?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “For him to think I am that strong and capable. No one has thought that of me in a long time.”
Charles smiled and felt his relief return. How could he ever have suspected her even slightly? She was right. The whole idea was beyond mad and Constable Marsh was a raving lunatic. He rose from his place on the settee and kneeling down in front of her he took her hand and held it in his.
“I’m sorry, Georgiana,” he said.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” she asked.
“You were so unhappy here.”
She shrugged. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“But I didn’t help you either, did I?”
“You are here now,” she said smiling. “And you can help me back upstairs. I fear the morning has quite tired me out. I just don’t have the same strength I used to.”
He carried her upstairs, feeling her weight in his arms, and thought that a small slip of a girl like her could never have killed anyone.
4
The blow came from his left. Nicholas never saw it coming. It slammed into his jaw, the uppercut knocking him off balance for a second, but instinctively he leaned right to avoid the follow up punch he knew would come. He had underestimated his opponent. Suddenly a street fight in an abandoned factory in Covent Gardens wasn’t as good an idea as he had thought.
Nicholas smiled and shook his head to clear his vision and stop the ringing in his ears. Recalculating his strategy, he made sure to stay well out of reach of his opponent. They circled each other, looking for a weakness. The crowd surrounding them called for blood. He leaned forward, his elbows in and his right hand a little higher than his left, ready to block another blow.
He jabbed, and then followed several more punches, trying to tire out his opponent enough so he could land a knockout punch. But he was well matched. The Irishman was far more hardened, and had probably learned to fight in the streets. His body and instincts were well suited for the game, and Nicholas could only hope the man would make a careless mistake before fatigue took its toll.
He kept his hands well in front of his face, trying to make sure the blows did little damage, but still they found their mark. Soon he knew the match was lost, for he was too tired to block the final blow that sent him crashing to the ground. He lay exhausted, staring up at the faces that encircled him, waiting for the world to stop spinning before a hand pulled him to his feet.
“Well fought,” he said shaking his opponent’s hand.
“I’m thinkin’ you should return next week,” the Irishman said, smiling, his teeth stained red with his own blood.
“It may take me longer to recover,” he smiled. “But soon,” he promised.
They parted as spectators exchanged winnings and the losers were left disgruntled to find solace in drink, especially welcome on such a cold night.
“You should have told me you intended to lose, old boy, for now I have not a farthing more to buy you a drink with.”
Nicholas turned to see Charles leaning against the wall. He barely recognized his friend without his uniform. He now wore fine tan pantaloons tucked into tall boots; a silk waistcoat; a long, elegant black coat; and a perfectly tied cravat at his neck. He was a gentleman now, no longer a soldier.
“You should know better than to gamble away your new fortune, Charles,” he said. “Come, I will change and then I shall buy you that drink.”
“I say, Nicholas, why do you prefer these street fights to a more relaxed bout at Gentleman Jacks?”
“There is more sport in a street fight,” he said. “Besides I require the hardness of the ground to remind me I’m still alive when my face hits it.”
“And none of your circle of friends sees you humiliated when you lose,” Charles said.
Nicholas laughed. “And that, yes.”
They left the old factory, neither one paying any attention to the boy in the shadows who watched them.
Georgiana had followed her brother just as she had followed her father. The effort had been easier because her brother was honorable, so felt less inclined to make sure he wasn’t followed. He had led her to an old building in Covent Garden used for bare-knuckle boxing matches. At first, she had stood in the back of the crowd that circled the fighters, her eyes on her brother as he watched the opponents beat each other up. It wasn’t until she noticed that one of the fighters was Nicholas that she had moved in closer to watch the fight.
Both fighters wore only breeches, no shirts, and no gloves. The match lasted only minutes but both fighters were exhausted and covered in sweat. Georgiana watched, astounded as Markham took a pounding from his opponent, but refused to give up. His eyebrow was cut and blood ran down his face. A jab to the right side of his face split the skin on his cheekbone. His eye swelled up and he spat blood. A few punches to his ribs had her convinced he must be in great pain but he smiled at his opponent after every crushing blow and kept at him. The final blow landed him on the floor where he stayed.
She watched them now, making sure to stay in the comfort of the shadows. Her brother and Nicholas spoke while his valet cleaned his cuts, and sewed them up with a needle. Blood ran down Nicholas’s face and she saw him flinch only once as his valet stitched him up. Otherwise, he sat on an old crate, patiently waiting. Her brother shared a word, and Nicholas laughed. His bare chest was covered in sweat and blood, the muscles hard under his skin. When his valet stepped away, his surgery completed, Nicholas dipped his head in a bucket of cold water and began drying himself. She watched as he took off his stained clothes.
He stood naked as the day he was born. She could feel her skin flush, but did not turn away. He had a beautiful, sculpted body, but it was the way he carried himself that fascinated her most. Even completely naked, he still showed a confidence and a lack of inhibition that drew her.
His valet helped him into his clothes and then handed him a comb. Soon Nicholas looked ready for a gentleman’s night out despite his swelling face.
Envy ran through her at the ability of men to have such freedom of person and such confidence while the women of their class were forced to endure the tyrannies of gentility and modesty. She watched them leave, waiting a minute more before following them.
They walked to their club where she knew she would never be admitted. She contemplated waiting for them, but they could be there all night. She leaned against a lamppost, her hands in her pockets and pulled her cap lower. It was the first night she had allowed herself to leave the house since the night she had killed her father. She was strangely calm now, euphoric even.
Constable Marsh had been so close to sending her to the gallows, but he had made one big mistake. He had tried to reveal the truth.
Truth in her society was hardly ever allowed to see the light of day. It was far too threatening to the established order of their lives, so any hint of it was crushed as quickly as poor Constable Marsh had been. He had lost his p
osition as a result of his questions. Her mother had made sure of that.
He came too close to the truth and was called a lunatic. She felt sorry for him, for she had experience with trying to reveal the truth. Her mother had great experience in making sure the facts never became known. She had never thought that her mother’s ferocious need to keep her good name would one day come to her rescue. She wondered if her mother believed any of what Constable Marsh had implied.
She felt sure Charles did not. She had watched him closely after the questioning and he had believed the part she played: a weak and helpless female. He wanted to protect her because he felt guilty, guilty for having abandoned her to their father. He wanted to believe she was the innocent and fragile being she was supposed to be. It helped that society had taught him that was what women were.
But her mother had experience with her daughter’s more determined nature, and might suspect that Constable Marsh had been on the right track. But even if her mother did suspect, she would never allow her suspicions to be revealed. Her good name would be lost forever. It was ironic that those qualities she so despised in her mother and brother were those that worked to her advantage now.
She watched a couple walking slowly past, the man’s attention on his companion. She was pretty, and dressed well, but the hour proclaimed her a kept woman, for no fine lady would be about this time of night. She laughed at a comment her companion made, and soon they were gone.
Across the street, a grubber worked his piece of iron between the stones of the road, looking for horseshoe nails or anything else he could find to sell. He dug at the dirt and filth between the stones, paying no attention to the carriages around him. It was late for him to still be about. A young girl with a baby in her arms approached, showing the twisted limb of the sleeping infant. Georgiana dug a coin from her pocket and gave it to her. The girl curtsied and moved on.
Georgiana looked up at the tall windows of the club, watching the fashionable and privileged enjoying a night’s entertainment. They would play cards and many a young man would lose a small fortune this night. The same fortune could keep the young girl and baby, and dozens like them, fed for years.
Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles) Page 5
