A Heart So Innocent

by Charlene Cross

  Trying to hold his temper in check, Justin kept his eyes devoid of emotion as he gazed at the Duke of Atwood and the four men who’d stormed his house and stridden into the dining room without preamble. “Gentlemen,” he said to the constable and his men, “and, of course, Your Grace.” Justin inclined his head ever so slightly as he casually leaned back in his chair. “When I last saw my wife, over a week ago, she was in perfect health. I’ve tried my best to locate her, but she seems to have disappeared without a trace. Where to, gentlemen, I have no idea.”

  Indeed, over the past week Justin had torn London upside-down in search of Aidan, but he’d had no luck in finding her. Eugenia knew nothing of her whereabouts, nor did David. Penny, her maid, had told him, in an accusatory tone, that she had no clue as to where her mistress might be. He’d even gone to see Aunt Patti, who’d traveled back to Warfield Manor the day after the ball, but like the others, his aunt hadn’t had any communication with Aidan, in person or otherwise. Not even the enterprising young Tim, who had settled into the orphanage with ease and now ruled his peers like a king, had any information about his missing duchess. “She ain’t been around here,” he’d told Justin. “And I know everythin’ there is to know about this place, inside and out.”

  George, the first person he’d questioned, had denied seeing her too. Fearing Justin might unleash his anger on him again, the man swore on bent knees that he’d not seen Aidan since the day in Hyde Park. Disgusted with the whimpering sop, Justin had decided to leave George’s face intact. As the days had passed, he’d become even more fed up when he’d been unable to discover the least little thing about his missing wife. His mood had grown darker and darker.

  Apparently, while Justin had been trekking all over London in search of Aidan—first grieving over her loss, fearing the worst had somehow happened to her, then heaping curses upon her head because he was certain she’d run off and was very much alive and well—Alastair Prescott had conducted his own investigation into his daughter’s disappearance, no doubt, culminating in this friendly little visit tonight.

  “I assure you all,” Justin finished, ‘I’ve had nothing to do with my wife’s sudden vanishing act.”

  Or had he? Guilt suddenly rippled through Justin. More than once, he’d wondered if his brutal attack on her had caused her to take flight. If that were the case, could he blame her? No! he castigated himself, knowing she had every reason to renounce him. God, Aidan, where are you?

  “Indeed, sir!” Alastair accused. “Although you deny any involvement in this rather bizarre affair, I strongly suspect you know exactly where she is.”

  His personal anguish having torn his heart to pieces, the old barriers surrounding it had been erected anew. “I do not!” Justin lashed back, coming to his feet, his linen napkin clutched in his balled fist. Because of his pain, he struck back, cruelly. “But when I do find her, sir, I’ll send her your way, posthaste. I no longer want her as my wife!”

  “You never did ‘want her as your wife,’ Westover,” Alastair countered, trying to turn the man’s hand.

  “You should know, sir. You’re the one who forced us into this disagreeable situation in the first place!” Justin blasted, his constraint on his temper finally shredding. “Had you not interfered in either of our lives, you’d need not be here now, tossing about accusations which cannot be proved. I repeat, though sorely tempted on several occasions, I did not murder your daughter!”

  “Constable,” Alastair said, his eyes locked with Justin’s, “show the duke my proof.”

  One of the men stepped forward, then unrolled a long sheet of paper, revealing a blood-splattered gown.

  “That’s Aidan’s dress! Where did you find it?” Justin asked, his heart pounding wildly, his hand clutching at the lavender silk. “God! The blood! What’s happened to her?”

  “That, sir, will be revealed at your trial,” Alastair stated. “Unless, of course, you’d like to make your confession now.”

  Justin glared at the man. “If you know something about her, tell me! Where did you get this dress?”

  “From a refuse bin within this very house, sir.” The Duke of Atwood turned to the constable. “Do you have enough evidence to charge this man with murder?”

  “We do, Your Grace.”

  “Then get on with it!”

  “Yes, sir.” The constable turned his attention to Justin. “By authority of the Crown and the laws of Great Britain, I arrest you, Justin Alexander Malcolm Warfield, Duke of Westover, for the murder of one Aidan Elizabeth Prescott Warfield, Duchess of Westover. Will you come peaceably, sir?”

  Hard steely eyes stared through the man; then Justin tossed his napkin onto his untouched plate and strode through the doorway into the hall. Fearing he might escape, the constable and his three men quickly shuffled after him. “Pitkin!” the young duke shouted, and stopped short; the four men bumped into Justin, nearly knocking themselves down. The elderly butler appeared, arching a brow at the indecorous foursome and their overly close proximity to his master. “Until further notice,” the Duke of Westover informed his man, “I shall be on holiday at Newgate! Should my errant wife decide to return, tell her she may find me there!”

  “…She was afraid of him,” Eugenia confessed as she stood in the witness box. “But I doubt very much Westover murdered her. Aidan is most impetuous. She—”

  “That will be all, Lady Manley,” the prosecutor stated.

  “… When he took her from our house,” David said, “Westover’s temper seemed to be held by a thread. But I presume his anger stemmed from her disobedience. He—”

  “Thank you, Lord Manley,” the prosecutor interrupted, and looked toward the stony-faced, white-wigged justices. “I have no further questions of this witness, milords.”

  “… When Her Majesty denied him the annulment, His Grace decided to seek a divorce,” Cynthia Danvers said. “But he told me he thought Her Majesty would block that option as well.”

  “And?” the prosecutor prompted.

  Cynthia looked at Justin’s hardened face, then back to the prosecutor. “Other than doing away with her, he saw no way out of their marriage.”

  “Thank you,” the prosecutor said. “That will be all.”

  “… Her Grace told me to call a constable,” Pitkin admitted stiffly.

  “And did you?” the prosecutor asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because His Grace told me if I moved, he’d step on me like he would a bug.”

  “What else did His Grace say?”

  Pitkin looked to his employer; then his gaze dropped. “As he carried his wife up the stairs, he threatened to drop the duchess back down them …”

  “Go on, sir,” the man urged. “In Westover’s exact words, what did he say?”

  Pitkin swallowed hard. “He said: ‘With any luck, the fall will kill you, saving me the trouble of doing the job myself.’”

  Several gasps echoed through the House of Lords, now convened as the Court of the Lord High Steward. A low rumble of speculative voices quickly followed. “Thank you, Mr. Pitkin,” the prosecutor said while he looked directly at the accused.

  As gray eyes held themselves steady on the prosecutor, Justin wondered how the hell his manservant had been able to quote, verbatim, what had been said that night, especially when Pitkin couldn’t remember anything else! Obviously fate was against him.

  “She was fine the next morning!” Pitkin protested quickly. “Not even a bruise or a scratch that I could see!”

  “That will be all, sir!” the prosecutor snapped.

  His head downcast, Pitkin stepped from the witness box.

  “… Now, Your Grace,” the prosecutor addressed the Duke of Atwood, “you’ve stated that, at pistol point, you forced a rather reluctant Duke of Westover to marry your daughter, is that correct?”

  “It is, sir. He’d compromised my daughter’s reputation. I had no other choice but to correct the situation.”

  “And w
hat was your daughter’s response to the forced marriage?”

  “She was very upset.”

  “And the duke’s response?”

  “He had murder in his eye!”

  Justin shot from his seat; his hard gaze locked with that of his father-in-law. “By God, if I did, it was directed at you, sir!” he shouted, his hands balling into angry fists.

  “And I say you are your father’s seed,” Alastair lashed back.

  At their sudden outbursts, a loud questioning rumble passed through the room. So, Justin thought, Atwood wanted to bring up the long-extinct conjectures about his parents’ deaths. After the initial shock of finding their bodies, Justin had quickly removed the weapon that was clutched in his father’s hand. Then he’d stripped his parents of their valuables, intent on making their deaths appear the result of being set upon by highwaymen, hoping to prevent a scandal. Yet there were those who had surmised the truth. Apparently Alastair Prescott was one of them.

  Noting the two men’s hostile stares, the prosecutor turned fully toward the Duke of Westover, extremely pleased that someone had finally elicited a response from the man. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, smiling at Justin.

  Justin’s steely gaze turned from Atwood’s to pierce the prosecutor’s face; slowly he fell back into his chair.

  “… I found her dress in the waste bin on the mornin’ after she disappeared,” Penny stated, eyes wide. “The bodice is torn, like you sees it. There’s blood on it!”

  “Thank you,” the prosecutor said. “That will be all.” He waited until the wobbly-kneed girl stepped from the box, then pronounced, “If it will please the court, I now call the Duke of Westover, who, of his own volition, has agreed to testify.”

  When Justin was situated in the box, the prosecutor asked, “Your Grace, are you able to deny any of the testimony presented thus far, specifically that of your butler?”

  His emotionless gaze on the prosecutor, Justin studied the man intently. He’d agreed to give testimony because he had nothing to hide. But now he thought his decision foolish. Finally he said, “I cannot.” Another rumble of voices filled the room.

  “Then you admit you were forcibly carrying your wife up the stairs, as your butler has stated.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was intent on bedding her!” Justin snapped, which was not a lie.

  The peers’ laughter trickled through the large room, and the prosecutor cleared his throat. “From the testimony already presented, you confirmed that your wife pleaded with your butler to get help, you threatened his life if he did so, then you also spoke of killing the duchess. My question is, why?”

  “I was simply warning her to behave. She is an extremely high-spirited and headstrong woman. I was merely trying to control her.”

  “Control her? Or were you intent on punishing her for some imagined indiscretion? Did she give you cause to want to kill her?”

  Justin refused to answer. Were he to confess the incident in Hyde Park, Aidan might suffer further reproach. The truth about their forced marriage had damaged her enough.

  “Have you no answer?” the man asked.

  “My wife did nothing improper, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Then, since you say she committed no indiscriminate act which may have drawn your ire, I propose to you, sir, that when faced with an unwanted marriage, in which you were soundly and permanently trapped, you took it upon yourself to do away with your wife, and that you’ve hidden the body in an effort to escape punishment for your heinous act!”

  “That’s a lie!” Justin shot back. “She’s alive!”

  “If that be so, produce her, sir.”

  Justin glared at his accuser. “I cannot,” he said finally.

  “I have no further questions of the defendant,” the prosecutor announced, and Justin stepped from the witness box. “If it will please the court,” the man said when Justin was seated, “I now call Viscount George Edmonds to testify.”

  As Justin listened to George’s testimony, he realized he was doomed. Two scenarios had been created by the prosecutor: one, the Duke of Westover was trapped in an unwanted marriage that he desperately wished to be freed from; two, Westover’s wife had attempted to cuckold him. Either of the two might be construed as a cause for murder. Dammit, Aidan! Where are you?

  Aidan rubbed the back of her hand across her itchy nose, then set the wet, soapy brush to the floor again, scrubbing in a circular motion. How many times had she cleaned her small room and those of the good Anglican sisters over these past six weeks, she could not say. But it was far and away one time too many.

  Wearily she tossed the brush into the wooden bucket. Dirty water sloshed onto the clean floor. Ignoring it, she leaned back on her knees. Her once soft hands were cracked and rough, her nails broken and split, her back ached unmercifully, and her knees were bruised from their constant wear on the stone floors. Admittedly, the only thing that kept her from leaving the cloistered convent and going back to London was her pride. “Damn my pride!” she chastised herself aloud as she came to her feet. Instantly someone cleared her throat behind her, and Aidan turned to see the abbess standing in the doorway.

  “Elizabeth,” the abbess said, addressing Aidan as she was now known, “profane language is not used here. Please remember it.”

  “I apologize for my blasphemy. It will not happen again.”

  The abbess arched a skeptical brow, then posed a gentle smile. “I’m certain you will be most careful in the future. But it is readily understood why one might denounce pride. As it is written, ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ It is certainly something to ponder.”

  “Yes, Abbess. Pride can be most destructive.” Especially her own, Aidan thought. And her haughty spirit as well.

  “If you are through here, I’d like for you to take a letter into the village to post.”

  Aidan’s eyes suddenly brightened. She hadn’t been beyond the walls of the small convent since the day she’d arrived. Very little communication flowed in or out of the ancient stone fortress, and like a butterfly, Aidan felt she was about to be released from her cocoon.

  “Brush your hair and wash your face,” the abbess said. “By then I shall have finished my letter.”

  Aidan watched as the abbess slowly walked away. Quickly she went to the basin and scrubbed her hands and face. Next she pulled a hard bristle brush through her hair, pinning it into a stark-looking bun at the nape of her neck. Rolling her sleeves down, she smoothed her skirts, then strode from her small cell, down the hallway to the abbess’s room.

  Guilty of murder as charged! The proclamation rebounded through Justin’s mind. A fierce shake of his head negated the verdict; he groaned. To be hanged by the neck until dead! A burly black-hooded man dragged him forward on the scaffold. The crowd cheered wildly as the thick hemp was placed around his neck; the heavy noose tightened. The floor suddenly dropped from beneath his feet, and he fell straight downward. A hideous noise escaped his throat. Air! Air! God, I need air!

  Justin sat up with a jerk. A violent shudder racked through his sweat-soaked body as he realized he’d been trapped in another one of his nightmares—a nightmare that would come to fruition in scarcely two days.

  “Goddammit! Where is she!” he snarled, jumping from his bug-infested cot to pace the dank cell. A candle burned low on a small table, his only source of light. “She’s not dead! I know it!”

  A key scraped in the ancient iron lock and the thick wooden door swung open. “Ye gots a visitor,” his jailer informed him.

  “Out of my way, young man!” Lady Falvey snapped,

  prodding the guard with her cane. “I’il call you when I’m ready to leave. Now, off with you!”

  The door squeaked on its hinges; the key twisted in the lock. Justin’s tired eyes searched his aunt’s face. “Any luck?” he asked in a dull tone.

  “No. One thing’s certain, she’s not with Georg
e Edmonds, nor has she ever been. I’ve had a man on him constantly. He’s reported nothing. The others that I hired are spread out all over England, looking for her. If she’s to be found, she will be.”

  A strangled laugh erupted from his throat. “That’s what you said during the trial. Dammit all! How can this be happening? I didn’t kill her. Why won’t anyone believe me?”

  “Calm yourself, Westover,” his aunt said, patting his arm. “I believe you. So do Eugenia and David. You were convicted on circumstantial evidence. Hearsay. A torn dress with blood on it, and Edmonds’s rambling testimony about the incident in Hyde Park. Your Warfield temper has gotten you into this. Had you held your tongue about wanting to be rid of Aidan when you first found yourself unwillingly wedded to her, you wouldn’t be in this little scrape now.”

  “Little scrape! I’m to be gibbeted in less than two days and you speak of it as though some bully were going to call me out into the schoolyard to box my ears!”

  “Keep your wits about you, nephew! You’ll need a clear head to help me figure out where she has gone.”

  “For six weeks I’ve been pondering that question and I’m no closer to an answer now than I was then. Had I even an inkling of where I might find her, I’d break through that blasted door and drag her back here for all London to see. It’s useless.”

  Aunt Patti thumped her cane. “No Warfield, except one, has ever yielded when faced with insurmountable odds. And you’ll not follow your father’s cowardly path, sir. You’ll fight this to the end! Is that understood?” She saw Justin’s curt nod. “Now, tell me everything that has happened between the two of you from the time you retrieved Aidan from Lord and Lady Manley’s to the day you last saw her.”

  “That could take weeks,” Justin said.

  “Then I suggest you talk fast. We haven’t that much time.”

  Justin settled on his cot while his aunt claimed the small wooden chair next to the table, the only rudiments in his small cell, except for the chamber pot positioned in the corner. Then in a low tone he related everything to his aunt, every detail, including the punishment he’d instituted on Aidan the night before she’d disappeared.