Even through her shivers Beth felt Rodney go still. Then the handsome face, whose chin was resting close to her ear, turned toward the lip of the falls. He took a good long look at the shimmering water plunging down onto a jumble of granite far below. “The bastard,” he murmured just loud enough for Beth’s ears alone, “I wager he’d make it five.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “You have only to ask.”
“Isn’t she worth a ship or two, O’Rourke?” Rodney taunted. “Maybe the loss of a mill or a bank? Make it five hundred and I’ll consider it.”
Beth caught a flash of movement behind her most unusual knight errant. A phalanx of riders had joined them, grouped in a semi-circle some twenty feet behind Terence. Nell! Grooms from the Refuge. Squire Blunden. Several unknown faces.
“Do you see them all?” Beth asked Rodney.
Oh, yes, my dear, indeed I do. And even the great Fixer won’t able to silence them all.”So it was nothing but a game. Rodney and Terence playing out a charade for the benefit of the audience. Which left her where?
A hank of hair, a scrap of bone . . . a useless female pawn, broken and battered on the granite below.
Terence took his boot off the rock, straightened to his full height. For the first time Beth noticed that throughout his conversation with Rodney he’d kept one hand behind his back.
“Five hundred it is,” he agreed “Now let her go.” He stretched out his hand. “Come to me, Beth,” he said, his words a soft caress instead of an order.
Rodney took a backward step toward the lip of the falls. Poised on the brink, he laughed. “You’re a Cit,” he hurled at Terence. “Think money can buy anything. Well, I’m about to show you how a nobleman dies!”
An infinitesimal nod of Terence’s head, his eyes flicking down toward the churning water at Beth’s feet.
She threw herself forward and down as hard as she could, genuinely astonished to find herself free, though on her hands and knees, struggling to keep her head above the fast-flowing water. A painful yank as Rodney recovered his grip on her braid. More pain as she attempted to clutch a rock, any rock, as he dragged her ever closer to the lip of the falls.
A sharp crack. Rodney’s grip on her hair went slack. Struggling against the current, Beth could only watch as her husband teetered on the brink. Slowly, his knees bent, his body crumpled. Later, the doctor would say he was dead from Terence’s bullet before he plunged over the Faeries’ Fall. Beth could never see that it mattered. Her husband was dead, and Terence had killed him. Before a solid ring of witnesses, including a magistrate.
PART IV
Chapter Twenty-four
Falcon Court, Kent
Falcon Court, a sprawling seventeenth century manor house set back a hundred yards from the Thames, enjoyed a constant panorama of ships, wherries, barges, and small ferry boats, plying their trade on the great river. The court boasted three fortress-like stories and numerous inconveniences which the ladies of the house were attempting to put to rights, using vast amounts of Tobias Brockman’s money.
There were times, in fact, when Beth offered the strong opinion that Falcon Court’s only assets were its proximity to London and the entertaining flow of river traffic at the foot of the gardens. Also, she was forced to admit, Falcon Court made a perfect hiding place. Behind the shelter of forbidding stone walls, a gatekeeper armed with a shotgun, and a constant patrol of carefully selected guards, she was confident of being safe. Even the river side of the house was now protected by a solid wrought iron fence and a padlocked gate.
The old manor house was also close enough to town so her papa could spend several days each sennight admiring the resurrection of Falcon Court into the country home he had always dreamed of owning. While, truth be told, keeping a close eye on the daughter he had almost lost, as well as indulging in renewed games of chess with Tildy, who had been delighted to come out of retirement, once again joining Beth as companion and friend. During London’s spring Season Beth’s old friends, Cat and Amabel, found their way to Falcon Court as well, though they were never able to persuade Beth to relinquish her firm grip on a life of seclusion. The scandal, they assured her, would pass. She must show herself, hold her head high. Beth thanked her friends for their concern and continued to decline all invitations.
Most days she and Tildy passed alone, each caught in a mountain of work, not all centered around the house. Miss Spencer devoted her considerable intelligence and energy to Falcon Court while her former pupil pursued quite different interests of her own. They seldom spoke of Terence. Of the new lines which had been cut into his handsome face over the past year. Of the grim set to his mouth on the rare occasions he accompanied Tobias to Falcon Court. Of the perfectly polite, perfectly blank masks worn by Lady Monterne and her alleged lover each time they met, in public or in private.
Goodness knows, Tildy thought, she had tried to discuss the subject often enough, but Beth would have none of it. As far as conversation was concerned, Terence O’Rourke did not exist. Greatly saddened, she could only pray that time would mend what Fate and the Viscount Monterne had torn asunder.
May 1818
Beth and Tildy were sitting in the Court’s sunny morning room—each at her own desk, surrounded by carefully enumerated lists and stacks of correspondence—when carriage wheels sounded on the driveway. Beth, jumping up, flew across the drawing room at a pace which defied her status as a widow barely out of mourning. Craning her neck, she peered out. “She’s here!” she chortled. Tossing a delighted smile at Tildy , Beth ran down the stairs toward the entrance hall.
As Nell Archer descended from the coach, she was nearly knocked off her feet by a small whirlwind of femininity. After hugging Beth tight, Nell put her child away from her, taking time for a good long look. Tears sprang to her eyes. What a difference a year could make. She could only hope her daughter’s life had recovered as much as her looks.
“You recall Miss Spencer, I believe?” Beth said a while later, after giving her friend time to refresh herself.
Nell smiled and said all that was polite. Her recollection of Miss Spencer, as all else during those first terrible months after their return to London, was hazy. There was, however, no doubt, that the thin middle-aged spinster considered Beth her own. Without a word being said, animosity blossomed Nell had known she was being irrational. Matilda Spencer was not only the woman who had taken her place as Beth’s mother, she was also the one who made her daughter the fine woman she was. She should have gone down on her knees, saying thank you. Instead, she had once again stepped aside, resuming her career as if she had never been away. And now she was back in London—and unable to stay away from the precious child she had come to love so much.
“How was Italy?” Beth burbled, as she began to pour out tea. “Come now,” she coaxed as Nell shook her head, “we must hear everything. Were your lovers quite grand?”
“Beth!” Tildy was genuinely shocked.
“They were young and ah–virile,” Nell agreed, a twinkle in her eye. “Not as manly as your Terence, I fear, but suitably distracting for a few months in the sun.”
A chill descended on the drawing room. Beth spilled a dollop of cream into the saucer. Tildy developed a sudden interest in her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
Nell looked from one to the other in amazement. “It’s not possible,” she declared. “You cannot be such a fool, child.”
“Just because you escaped to Italy for eight months,” Miss Spencer pronounced with some severity, “does not mean the scandal has gone away.”
“In a year’s time,” Nell countered, “surely the ton has been titillated by a hundred other scandals.”
“None so good as the tale of the Merchant Prince and Princess,” Beth murmured.
“Caught naked in each other’s arms,” Tildy intoned.
“Her husband shot dead by her lover,” Beth added.
“Tales of murder—”
“Attempted murder—”
“Snakes in the b
edcovers—”
“Quagmires and hellhounds,” Beth added with dreadful resignation. “And at the heart of it all, the two heirs to the Brockman empire. One, the managing director of so many important people’s investments.” With sorrow tinged by self-mockery, Beth shook her head. “Oh, no, Nell, ’tis not a scandal that has faded with time. A year has been scarce enough for Papa and Terence to stabilize the losses. You may recall that if Squire Blunden hadn’t stood firm, Lady Colchester would have stirred up enough trouble to see Terence hanged. Losing Rodney was a great loss to her plans.”
“Do you think it was she who—”
“Terence says yes, but the stranger seen on Dartmoor has never been found. The matter remains a mystery. So far there have been no further attempts, but I am so sheltered here it is difficult to tell if the matter is over.”
“You do not go to town then?” Nell asked.
Beth’s lips tilted into a smile, her eyes sparking into mischief. “Oh, I go,” she confided. “I just don’t let anyone see me.”
“I’ve begged her not to,” Tildy burst out, “but there’s no holding her back. She’s got the bit between her teeth and won’t listen to a thing I say. If she were still in the schoolroom I’d have her on bread and water for a week.”
Beth laughed. “You never had me on bread and water in my whole life, and well you know it.”
“You shouldn’t go off like that,” Tildy wailed. “And to such a neighborhood!”
“So you did it!” Nell breathed. “You truly did it. Tell me,” she commanded, turning eager eyes on her only child.
Beth put down her tea cup, steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “You will recall,” she said at last, “that when you left, Tildy and I were settling into this house. Papa and Terence were fully occupied trying to save the company, and I . . . I wanted to hide, never again show my face to nobles or merchants alike. But it wasn’t enough, of course. As I told you months ago, I could turn my back on the scandal, but I could not ignore the cause. There are too many women suffering as I did, women with no stalwart brothers or wealthy papas to rescue them. Women who live in hell or go to an early miserable death.”
Silently, both Nell and Tildy nodded. “Thanks to Papa’s forethought,” Beth said, “I have some money of my own.” A tinge of bitterness crept into her voice as she added, “But even the Merchant Princess has her funds guarded. Until I am of age, anything more than pin money, generous as it is, must be requested from Papa or Terence.” Beth wrinkled her nose, shrugged. “And they were scarce enthusiastic about my plans. I will not bore you with their forebodings nor, truthfully, did I wish to add to their burdens.”
Her amber eyes lit with a sudden twinkle. “And then—quite unexpectedly—help came out of the blue. You recall the vicar, Mr. Renfrew? He is now Lord Monterne. It seems he was so grateful for my telling him about the Treasure Room that when he sold the contents at auction he insisted on giving me a quarter of the profits. So there I was with more than enough for all I needed. Creating the shelter became quite easy. I turned to Jack to find a proper building. Tildy and her sister helped find good staff, and I go to town three days a week to make sure all goes well.”
“It’s dangerous,” Tildy interjected. “I’ve told her so a thousand times, but of course she doesn’t listen. Helping women escape their husbands is against the law. Everyone knows that, but will she listen—”
“We call it a school,” Beth interrupted. “A shelter for mothers and their children. A place where they can learn skills to support themselves.”
“On top of the scandal, it’s insanity!” Tildy snapped. “I could not refuse to help, of course, but I’ve told her if she must do it, then she should simply fund the project, but never go within miles of the place.”
Nell sighed, the dangers of Beth’s school scarcely piercing her own anguished thoughts. She had come back into her daughter’s life determined to tell her the truth immediately. And now another crisis was looming. It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
Nor, it seemed, was there any prospect of grandchildren. For all intents and purposes Terence O’Rourke had disappeared off the face of the earth. At least as far as Beth was concerned.
Nell Archer presented her cup for more tea. She and Beth had fought their way out of the morass of Dartmoor. There had to be a way to conquer this latest problem as well.
London, ten days later
On the day Jack had taken her to view four properties as possible locations for her proposed school and shelter, Beth’s suspicions had been aroused when the most suitable, by far, was only three blocks from the offices of Tobias Brockman & Company. At first, she’d rebelled, determined to choose one of the other properties, but common sense won out. She was embarking on a dangerous enterprise. Operating in the shadow of her family’s protection was not to be scorned. Taking full advantage of the situation, she named her ambitious enterprise The Brockman School, a name which would provide an additional umbrella of protection and perhaps spur her papa into a generous contribution. Once, that is, the walls of the Brockman empire ceased to shake.
There was also the thought, which Beth almost managed to ignore, that the scant three blocks from the Brockman company offices to the new shelter were scarcely a challenge to an adventurous person willing to wend his way through a series of dark narrow streets between buildings which had once been fashionable, but now clung to shabby gentility on the edge of the financial district.
Beth descended from her carriage, offered a smile and a bright good morning to the burly ex-boxer who guarded the front door, and began her customary stroll through her new domain. A peek into the classroom where mothers and children alike were learning to read. A wave to the good-natured portly matron who was instructing a group of eager-eyed women in the kitchen. A longer pause in the doorway of the room where another group of women struggled with the niceties of setting a table. The fine art of creating a bonnet was the topic in a room near the end of long central hall.
She should be pleased, Beth thought, as she headed for the room at the back which she had made into an office for herself. Instruction in a skill was all well and good for single mothers, for girls rescued off the streets, but the battered wives would go in daily fear of their lives unless they could get out of London. Far, far away where their spouses would never find them. The Reverend Renfrew had been able to place several women in Devon, but she needed other sources, many more sources, in the countryside. She supposed she would have to break down and ask Terence, as much as it galled her to do so. Beth had suffered to gain what independence she had. Compromising her hard-won goal hurt, but her women must come first. For them she would bend her stiff-necked Brockman pride.
Beth opened the door to her office, drew off her bonnet and pelisse, hanging them on a simple coat rack in the corner. Slowly, she examined the room, allowing a sense of satisfaction to replace the worries of a moment earlier. Her desk might be pine, but it was commodious. The two well-worn leather chairs in front of her desk had come from one of the Brockman offices. The fireplace was utilitarian, only the carved overmantel betraying that the old house had once known better days. A spot of color along one wall came from a Chinese red lacquer cabinet, a gift from Terence. On the opposite wall, a burgundy leather sofa, which Beth found a less intimidating location for interviewing newcomers than from behind her pine desk.
At the moment it also accommodated an Irishman who should have been at work in his own office instead of taking up space in hers.
From under sinfully long lashes Terence regarded her with a decided gleam in his eye. “It’s more than a year,” he said softly. “You’ve satisfied both propriety and guilt. Time to get on with your life.”
Beth seated herself behind the solid protection of the slightly battered old pine desk, folded her hands primly in front of her. “I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”
“And how long are you going to use a catalog of evils to hide behind?” he taunted. “Guilt, scandal, propriety be
damned. You have too much to offer to forever hide yourself away from the world, a nun devoted to her bevy of female sufferers!”
“You forget anger,” she declared coldly. “Mine. And betrayal. Yours.”
Terence unfolded from the sofa. Flattening his palms on the desk, he bent toward her, the air suddenly crackling between them. “Old history, my girl. Two years gone and done. I’m bloody well not going to suffer the rest of my life because I decided letting you go was the honorable thing to do.”
“Honor be damned. You didn’t have the courage to stand up to Papa—”
“I loved him, you foolish chit! You of all people should be able to understand that. I loved him, as I loved you. I only wanted to do what was right.” With a groan Terence stalked to the fireplace. Gripping the mantel with one hand, he stared blindly at the empty grate.
How could it have come to this? Beth wondered. The two of them quarreling over a love which now, at last, had an opportunity to burn brightly and from which she spent most of her waking moments running as if from the devil himself.
Here in her office was the only place they ever allowed themselves to be alone. A secret few people shared, not even Tildy or Tobias. The first time Beth opened the door and found him waiting for her, she hadn’t even been surprised. Of course he had a key. Jack would have seen to that.
Awkward at first, feeling their way through the horrors of death and vicious scandal, they’d gradually worked their way back to an aching form of their old camaraderie. Precious moments, the fifteen minutes a week Terence allowed himself with Beth. Except for those few grand occasions when he arrived, filled with boyish charm, a basket over his arm, ready to share a picnic lunch as they sat side by side on the burgundy leather sofa.
And yet Beth, her hurt miles deep, guarded her heart with fierce determination. At the moment they had reached an impasse, and Terence’s Irish temper was running short. He was still looking down into the fireplace, his harsh breaths filling the room. He looked so . . . forlorn. Dared she peek beneath the armor she had wrapped around herself? Take an honest look at the woman who lurked inside?
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