Augusta was right. Jeanette must confront her husband. But in one aspect she was wrong. If Jeanette went to London, there was every chance Henry would refuse to admit her.
But she had to try.
*
Henry leaned back in the chair. The letter lay on the desk in front of him, his wife’s bold, even hand filling the pages with bland words about Edward’s progress with his tutor, minutiae about his mathematical abilities. A whole page had been dedicated to an account of the portrait, an overly descriptive detail of colors and tones.
But behind the words was distant notes of pain. Jeanette wasn’t the type to fill empty spaces with mere remarks. The words she spoke came from the heart, each one to be valued and cherished. The desperation lingering among the mass of triviality in her letter would be unnoticeable except to those who knew her well, as if she wanted to fill the page with any piece of information in the hope it might elicit a response from him.
He jumped at a knock on the door and called out. Sanderson slipped through and closed the door behind him, body heaving with exertion, his face red.
“You’re late.”
“Be thankful I’m here at all,” Sanderson panted. “I had to take a detour via Holborn.”
“What on earth for?”
Sanderson gestured to a chair, and Henry nodded. The servant sat and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “I was followed, all the way back from the docks. I’d heard of a house where women were being held before they were sold.”
“A breakthrough! Do you have an address?
Sanderson shook his head. “Only a description. But before I could find it, I spotted two men watching me, so I left, thinking I’d come back when it was dark. But they followed me. I wasn’t going to lead them here, so I went to the Holborn house. But someone was watching the door.”
Henry shook his head. “Dear Lord.”
“It’s time we gave up,” Sanderson said, his voice grave. “The danger’s too great. Leave it to the Runners. Or Guy Chantry. He has political influence and a conscience, not qualities often seen in the same man. Let him deal with it.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve.”
“Not at all, sir, but consider what might have happened had I led them here? We already know they’ll not stop at murder to silence those who ask too many questions.”
“So you think I’ve lost my nerve?” Henry asked.
“No, I know you don’t mind risking your own neck, sir, but what about those close to you? Do you think Lydia’s murder was a coincidence?” Sanderson looked to one side, but not quickly enough to conceal the glint of grief in his eyes. Lydia had been strangled like the others, but unlike them, the coroner’s report told of other damage. Before she died, each of her fingers had been dislocated.
Someone had tortured her.
“At all costs, you must keep her out of London. My Lydia was killed because of me. I can’t prove it, but I know. In here.” Sanderson placed his hand over his heart. “Even the meanest simpleton will work out you’re involved, that I’m acting under your instruction.”
Henry’s skin tightened with fear at Sanderson’s meaning. He looked down to see his fingers digging into the desk, his knuckles white.
“Take my advice, sir,” Sanderson said. “Do everything you can to keep your wife away from here, unless you want her to share Lydia’s fate.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The rocking of the carriage had long since lost its soothing properties. Bile rose in Jeanette’s throat, and she pulled the window down and took a breath. Frost clung to the ground, but the cold air soothed her lungs, dissipating the fog of nausea.
The carriage jerked to a halt. Curses echoed from above, two masculine voices and a third, lighter voice, cut short at the crack of a whip.
“Get your bleedin’ hands off me, ouch!”
The footman appeared at the window, holding a squirming, cursing figure.
“Edward!”
“I caught this ruffian hiding beside your trunk, your ladyship. He needs a good thrashing. We’ll have to turn back.”
“No!” she cried. Nausea had thinned her courage. If they returned to Ravenwell Hall now, she’d never leave. “Bring him inside.”
The boy stumbled through the door, and she drew him to her. Cold seeped through her gown as she held his stiff little body.
“Edward, you’re freezing! Don’t you realize how dangerous it was? What possessed you?”
“I heard you were leaving.”
“Yes, for London.”
“What if you don’t come back? Like Papa?”
“You think I’d abandon you?”
The boy remained silent.
“We should go back,” she said. “I can’t take you with me.”
His fingers tightened around her hand. Though he turned his head away, she caught a glimpse of his lower lip wobbling and sighed.
“Perhaps you can come with me, this once.”
His body relaxed as she gave the order to continue to London.
*
Jenkins opened the front door. His eyes widened as they focused on Edward, before his usual bland expression took over and he gave Jeanette a stiff bow.
“I wasn’t aware you were coming, your ladyship.”
“Is Lord Ravenwell at home?”
“No.”
“Of course not, how foolish of me. The evening must be in full swing at the bawdy houses.”
The butler’s mouth twitched. He’d never excel at poker; his ‘tell’ was too obvious.
“Could you send someone to tend to Master Edward? He’s tired from the journey.”
“Of course, my lady. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
The butler bowed and disappeared. Why did everyone think tea a cure for everything? Her stomach swirled. If she expelled the contents on the Aubusson rug, news would spread among the downstairs inhabitants of every house on the street. She could only be safe from prying eyes in her bedchamber.
Padding across the passageway to her chamber, she stiffened at a familiar voice coming from Henry’s room. Sanderson, the servant who’d witnessed her debauchery in Henry’s second townhouse, the house where he entertained his mistresses.
“You must tell the master she’s here,” Sanderson said. “He’ll be sore angry.”
“I’ll tell him when he returns from Betty’s.”
The second voice was the butler. Was he also involved?
“When will that be? Bawdy houses never close.”
“He always returns before first light,” Jenkins said. “We have your Miss Rosaline to thank for that. I’ll wait up.”
“No sleep for the wicked?”
“Do you refer to myself or the master?”
“Both, I imagine, Mister Jenkins.” Sanderson issued a deep sigh. “How many women is it now?”
“More than fifty.”
“And none have been found?”
“Seven bodies. Six whores, the seventh, the daughter of a merchant. The authorities think she eloped.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From the master.”
“He’s risking too much.”
“I know, Sanderson, which is why he’ll be furious to find her here. Why can’t she do as she’s told and stay hidden away in the country like wives are supposed to?”
“You said yourself, Jenkins, she’s not a lady by birth.”
“Good God! You suppose she’s at risk?”
“You’ve seen enough of her to realize she won’t be contained.”
“She’s got the child with her.”
“Christ! What’s she playing at?”
“I don’t know, Sanderson, but the sooner they’re returned Sussex, the better. The master’s convinced the boy suspects something. He’s not safe here.”
The floorboards creaked. Jeanette shrank back into the shadows as the door opened.
“Did you hear something?”
“Check the brat. I’ll find her.”
The two men disappeared toward Jeanette’s bedchamber. Something was afoot, but she needed to keep a cool head and make a show of ignorance. Body tightening with fear, she fled to the drawing room and hurried over to the piano. Fingers trembling, she began to play a simple sonata by Mozart, a cheerful tune to mask her fear.
Closing her eyes, she focused on the music and took deep breaths, her chest expanding and contracting to the rhythm of the music. When Jenkins found her, he would see his mistress sitting calmly at her pianoforte without a hint of the dread spreading through her veins.
Footsteps approached, a steady gait to match her heartbeat, followed by the rattle of the doorknob and a long, slow creak as the door opened behind her. Her skin tightened as a warm breath caressed her neck.
Soft lips touched her skin and a voice crawled inside her mind.
“Jeanette…”
A hand clamped her shoulder and she jumped, her hands crashing onto the keys in a distorted chord.
“Oh Jeanette.” Henry turned her to face him. His eyes glistened in the candlelight, brow furrowed as if in pain. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you. I’ve something to say…”
A finger pressed against her lips. “No talking.”
“But…”
He silenced her with his mouth. Hot, hard lips marked his territory before a rumble of anguish reverberated in his throat.
“Come with me.”
He scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs to her bedchamber and placed her on the bed.
“Don’t move.”
He lifted her gown over her head and unlaced her undergarments. Her bare skin tightened at the rush of cold air.
“Lie back.”
Obeying the command, she sank into the mattress, desire banishing her conscience as his skillful hands elicited cries of pleasure from her lips. Though his touch was gentle, it was the mark of a man not to be denied. Slowly but insistently, he nudged her thighs apart. The air thickened with the sweet scent of her own need.
“Always so wet, just for me.” His breath tickled against her flesh as he placed a light kiss on her stomach, the deep rumble in his chest vibrating into her body. With a cry of embarrassment, she moved her legs to stem the surge of moisture, but he tightened his hold.
“Be still. Let me savor what’s mine.”
He placed a kiss on the inside of one thigh, then dipped his tongue in, sending a shudder of pleasure through her. With a growl of approval, he moved closer to the source of sweet agony swelling inside her until he found the secret bundle of nerves at her center.
Her body bucked against the exquisite torture. Pain became pleasure, and she cried out as her body shuddered.
“Henry!”
Riding her climax, his lips grew gentler as she drifted back. He peppered her body with feather-light kisses to the rhythm of the aftershocks which rippled softly through her.
The bed shifted under his weight. His heat prickled against her skin, and he came down full upon her. His mouth claimed hers once more, the sharp taste of her pleasure on his lips as he nudged her thighs wider apart with his knee.
“Henry, I can’t…”
A hard thrust and he became her whole world, claiming his complete ownership of her. He withdrew slowly, then slammed inside her. The action drove her body into another climax, and bursts of fire exploded within her. She clawed at his body, pulling him toward her, fueled by her need.
His body burst with life, and he shouted her name. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him deeper in. Henry continued to thrust, his body desperate to fill her completely. His movements grew weaker until his voice diminished to a whisper of pain and need.
He buried his head in her shoulder and held her close. Still inside her, he drifted into sleep, her name on his lips.
“Oh Jeanette. My love.”
*
When Jeanette woke, she was cocooned in a warm embrace. Her husband lay draped over her body. One arm curved around her front, his hand cupping her breast.
He murmured her name and his body tensed, his breath quickening as sleep left him. The bed shifted, and he issued a curse. A rush of cold air clawed at her skin. Soft footsteps moved away. After the telltale click of the door, silence fell except for the sound of her own breathing.
Moments later, the door re-opened. The familiar aroma of musk and man teased her senses, followed by a deep sigh.
“Get up.” The coldness of the voice belied the warmth of his body which had yet to dissipate. She rubbed her eyes and sat up.
Henry stood before her, fully dressed.
“You need to leave.”
“Henry, there’s something I must tell you.”
“I don’t care. You shouldn’t be here.”
“What about last night?”
“Last night was a mistake.”
He looked away, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“You don’t mean that, Henry. You can’t.”
He leaned forward, nostrils flaring. His eyes dilated, the blue turning almost black. He blinked and sighed, his breath warming her skin. An invisible thread connected them, drawing her closer until their lips met.
“Henry.”
“What do you want?” he said, his voice almost inaudible.
She kissed him, taking the lead as he parted his lips, stroking them with her tongue until he granted her entrance.
“You want me, Jeanette?”
“Yes.”
The bed dipped under his weight, and her skin tightened as his hands caressed her breasts.
“Lie back.”
Her body obeyed and her nipples pebbled under his gaze.
“Always so responsive.”
He moved his hand along her body until his fingertips reached the curls at the juncture of her thighs, already damp with her need for him.
“Part your legs.”
*
Henry sat back, straining to conquer the urge to bury himself inside the willing woman on the bed—the wife who, despite his treatment of her, needed him as much as he yearned for her.
What the devil was he doing? Now was not the time to surrender. Her safety must overshadow his selfish desire for gratification.
He closed his eyes. If she noticed the smallest shred of concern—or even love—for her in his expression, she would demand she remained by his side. To fight, not only for the cause of the women he sought justice for, but for him. She would fight for him. Her intelligence and insight which he’d once ridiculed as traits rendering a woman undesirable not only made her unique among women, but placed him in danger of revealing his biggest weakness.
His need to be loved.
For her sake, he must barricade himself with armor thick enough to withstand her scrutiny.
“Henry?”
He opened his eyes to reveal the image he had dreamed of from the first moment he’d seen her. As if she understood his notion of paradise, she lay before him, open and ready, unashamedly offering him her body.
Digging his fingernails into his palms, he replaced the vision of paradise before him with an image of hell in his mind’s eye—Jeanette, floating face down in the water, dark lesions on her neck.
It worked. Anger and fear swept through him, bringing the edge of steel into his voice.
“Jeanette, you should leave.”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Dear God, woman, must I repeat myself?” he cried.
Her eyes widened at his outburst, and she closed her legs and pulled her nightdress down to cover herself. She turned her head away but not before he glimpsed the shame in her eyes.
But now was not the time to comfort her. He would take her in his arms and beg forgiveness once the danger had passed.
If she forgave him.
“Take the child with you,” he said. “I’ve sent someone to get him up. I want you out of the house in an hour. Believe me when I say it’s better for you both if you comply.”
She climbed
out of the bed. A loose scrap of lace hung from her nightgown, and she fisted it in her hand and ripped it off. She held it to her mouth then turned to face him, and his heart tightened.
Her face was an expressionless mask, her eyes cold and hard.
“You are, of course, correct, sir,” she said. “Rest assured, sir, I shan’t waste your time, or mine, by coming here again.”
Turning her back on him, she moved to the dressing room door and rang for her maid.
As the door closed behind her, the scrap of lace fluttered to the floor. Henry waited for her to make a sound or burst back into the bedchamber, but she did not. Eventually he heard voices. Her maid had arrived, and she would be occupied for some time.
Though her final words had been delivered coldly, base notes of pain lingered within her voice, mirroring the hurt in her eyes. He should have rejoiced that she still cared, that she had not rendered herself indifferent to him. But the gratification of being able to elicit such feelings in his wife yielded to self-loathing in the face of the evidence that she suffered almost as much as he.
He crossed the room and crouched beside the door, picking up the scrap of material. He fingered the delicate pattern of lace which a seamstress would have spent several hours tatting, her eyes straining over the intricate design. Now it lay discarded and rejected. He stood and returned to the bed, pocketing the lace in his jacket where it rested over his heart.
He placed his palm on the bedsheet, tracing the imprint of her form where an echo of her body heat still lingered. Picking up the pillow, he held it against his face and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent.
The voices next door grew louder, and he dropped the pillow. A bead of moisture stood in the center, glistening in the sunlight before it dissolved into the material, leaving the faintest of marks. By the time his wife returned to the bedchamber, it would have dried completely.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jeanette descended the stairs toward Edward who stood waiting by the front door, fidgeting with his overcoat, a footman by his side.
“Wait outside, Edward. I’ll be with you shortly.”
The boy’s lip wobbled. “Does Papa not want us?”
“He’s busy, dear.”
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