by Darcy Burke
A blood-curling shriek sounded from upstairs, followed by the breaking wail of a baby’s cry. Con’s heart plummeted even as his entire body bristled for a fight. Elizabeth. He had no idea why she was here, but he knew those sounds were hers and Oliver’s. It felt as if his stomach were being ripped from his belly. He took a step toward the baby’s wails, but the lackeys at his sides quickly caught his arms in viselike grips. Momentum carried him forward another foot and he almost fell on his face. Then he started struggling in earnest, but it was no use. There was nowhere to go.
The officer who’d charged him shook his head. “We’re not taking the woman, don’t worry. But the baby has to be returned to his father.” For the first time, he looked resigned. “We’re just here to enforce the law.”
“I’m the father!” Con yelled. He jerked his arms again, but the men must have expected it.
“Oh, Con,” his mother whispered. Tears ran down her face. “Con, please tell me they’re wrong.”
He glared at each of the men crowding his entryway. “I’m the father,” he said again. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on my son.”
The constable didn’t flinch, but Con thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy. Still, in a commanding voice, he gave the orders to take Con out to the carriage. “If you don’t come quietly,” he added, “your mother will have a far more unpleasant scene to witness.”
Con looked at her. Then he thought of Darius, and Elizabeth, and Bart and Roman and Antony. His family, whom he couldn’t help now. Maybe not even in the future. Oh, God. What was the punishment for child stealing? Was that even a crime?
He couldn’t think of it now. First he had to spare his mother any more of his shame. As the officers led him back into the dirty streets, he turned and looked up, hoping to see his mother there at the top of the stairs. She was.
“Send Bart,” he directed her. She nodded mutely.
The lead officer opened the carriage door. He got in. The two others waited for Con to do the same. He paused and turned back. His mother was still there, but the fourth officer was now headed toward the carriage with Oliver in his arms. Con bit back the urge to shout at the man to leave his son alone, to rail at the injustice of tearing Oliver from Elizabeth and at his own ineptness at keeping the child safe. Instead, he had one last thing to say to the woman standing on the stairs, her eyes full of disappointment and misery. “I’m sorry, Mother.” Even at this distance, he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. “Please tell Elizabeth I’m sorry, too.”
Chapter Nineteen
IT WAS ALL TOO SIMILAR to the last time. She couldn’t even drag herself from the floor, where she’d crumpled just as the tips of her fingers had slid away from Oliver’s gown. They’d had to wrest him from her. She’d had no chance against them. Not a one. She sobbed quietly against her forearm, feeling the scratch of the carpet beneath her and hearing the muffled voices of Con’s family as they tried to make sense of it. What she’d done to their son. Her remorse knew no bounds, and her grief overwhelmed her. Without Oliver, she had nothing. And Con…
He’d been arrested. Because of her. If there’d been any hope for them before, it was well and crushed now.
She had no idea how long she cried. Her recollection blurred when it came to identifying precisely who came to see to her, though she vaguely recalled several attempts to bring her up from the floor. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. One minute she’d been feeding her son, shocked by the passage of time while she and Lady Montborne had played with the baby, and the next, there’d been a frightening pounding on the door. The hours after that swam together.
A firm voice penetrated her haze. Had she fallen asleep? She was exhausted, mentally and physically. Too exhausted to heed the orders being barked at her.
“Get up,” the unfamiliar voice said. It was unforgiving. Not that she deserved forgiveness. She’d lost her baby… Oh, God, her baby…
“Elizabeth, you must talk to me. Get up.”
No. She wanted to die here.
A hand shook her shoulder roughly. “Is this helping? Is it bringing back your child? What about Constantine? Should we just let him rot because you aren’t strong enough to help him?”
“I can’t help him,” she whispered. The words were wrapped in her grief, barely intelligible even to her ears.
“That remains to be seen. Now, get up. Tell me what has happened.”
She turned her head toward the voice. Her eyes didn’t open. They were too heavy. And they burned. “I can’t.”
“Elizabeth, if you don’t get up and get a hold of yourself, I’m going to pry you off of the floor myself. I want answers. I want the truth.”
Who was this man? She wanted to open her eyes, but they felt swollen shut. Slowly, painfully, she forced one open, then the other. A very tall man towered over her. Though the room was lit by a single candle and the bright hallway cast him in silhouette, she discerned his hair was dark brown and loosely curling. Not Roman, then.
But of course, she would have recognized Roman’s voice.
“Lord Bartholomew Alexander,” he clipped out, “barrister. This will go much faster if you’ll tell me the truth. Leave nothing out.”
Her limbs felt like bags of sand. She was so tired. The thought of sitting up exhausted her, but she didn’t like being prostrate before this man. “Help me,” she murmured. Then she remembered Oliver was gone. This time, there would be no getting him back. Tears leaked from her eyes and she sagged against the carpet again.
Footfalls vibrated the floor. Strong hands worked their way beneath her shoulders and knees and suddenly she was hefted into the air and nestled against a large, warm chest. Not Constantine’s. Lord Bartholomew smelled different, and he held her like a duty he must bear. But the human contact made her feel less alone, and by the time he’d moved her to sit on a settee, she had mostly seized control of her tears.
There was a bed and a lounge in the room, she noticed dully, yet he’d placed her upright on a firm couch. She watched as he crossed the room and fetched the candle, then efficiently lighted two sconces and a candelabrum until the room’s shadows were banished. He was tall, as she’d surmised, and broad-shouldered. Though his hair wasn’t blond like his brothers’, he had the same piercing eyes. Most striking, however, was his attire. Simple, drab garments that had likely never been in style, in any decade. She glanced down at his feet, for shoes often revealed more about a person than all their clothing combined. His were no exception; he did have one indulgence, at least. Shiny, impossibly black Hessians molded to calves no barrister could have earned solely in his line of work.
He returned and sat beside her on the settee, but far enough away that he didn’t intrude into her space. “Start at the beginning.”
She swiped at her eyes without looking at him. “You’re not very comforting.”
“My brother is rotting in prison. Forgive me if I’ve skipped the pleasantries.”
She had nothing smart to say to that. The silence stretched on as she worried a frill on her skirt between her fingers. What could she say to him? Not the truth. Con would never want his family to know the truth.
“I’m going to get him out,” Lord Bartholomew said. “It’s not a question of if, but when. Before I do, I want to know what I’m up against.”
“What are the charges?” she whispered.
“Child stealing and fraud. A felony and a misdemeanor, respectively.”
Child stealing. She could only stare at her hands. Nevertheless, she felt Lord Bartholomew’s unyielding gaze burning the side of her face. “Why wasn’t I charged?” Her next words were a mere murmur. “They wouldn’t let me go with him.”
“You haven’t committed a crime.”
“I haven’t?” Her relief was short-lived. Con was in a cell.
It should have been her.
Lord Bartholomew gave no indication he was aware of her anguish. “The law specifically exempts a mother from stealing her offspring. No one questions that you’re the child�
��s mother. What is important here is that a man who claims to be a child’s father, even if that child is illegitimate, is also exempted. Therefore, someone must have convinced the constabulary that Con is not the child’s father, at least to the degree that Constantine will have to prove he is.” He paused. “That’s the most obvious answer. If you recall,” he drawled, “this is all new to me.”
She didn’t appreciate his acerbity. She couldn’t meet his eyes but she could feel his weight making the couch sag. She felt more alone with him on the other side. Judging her. “What will happen?”
“I’d rather you answered my questions,” he said, “but the fact is, I don’t know. There will be a bail figure set. That’s my first priority after I leave here. Once he’s back home, we’ll be able to regroup and better understand the nature of the charges.” He shifted to turn his whole body toward her. “Look at me.”
She couldn’t. He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and fingers and forced her head to turn toward his. “Listen to me, Elizabeth. You’re not going to lie to me. I know you’re scared and desperate, but I’m a barrister. I’ll represent my brother. You have to trust me.”
She wanted to. Unburdening herself to this strong man would surely make her feel less alone. But she couldn’t tell Con’s brother about their deception. He’d have to do it himself. She couldn’t bear to be the cause of more disappointment in this family.
“What of Oliver?” She looked into eyes so similar to Con’s and held her breath.
She shouldn’t have looked. His flash of doubt almost caused her to double over. She didn’t, though, because he was forcing her chin up. And because he said, “I’ll do everything in my power to get your child back.”
She nodded and he released her. She rubbed at her eyes and nose again. She must look a fright. “I’ll post Con’s bail.”
Lord Bartholomew’s jaw twitched. “That won’t be necessary.”
She frowned. “Won’t it?”
He scowled, the first emotion she’d seen in him besides impatience. He looked like he wanted to reject her offer again. “I’ll send word if it is,” he said at last. “It’s possible, given the nature of the charge, his bail will be set rather high.”
She didn’t know what would be higher: the actual amount of the bail or the Alexander family’s perception of it. Either way, she could cover it tonight. “It’s late. Unless you let me help you, you won’t be able to post until the banks open. Con will spend the night in the gaol.” She didn’t add, just as he’s always feared repeating.
Lord Bartholomew’s blue eyes snapped. Her logic had succeeded. It was that plain he, too, knew of Con’s terror, and didn’t want to put his brother through that suffering just to salvage his own self-respect. “You believe you have enough?”
She nodded. They wouldn’t know the exact number until he went to see Con, but she was sure she had it on hand. There were benefits to her profession. Getting her lover arrested was not one of them.
Lord Bartholomew’s face pulled in a handsome grimace, but he stopped arguing with her. If she’d ever had any notion of endearing herself to Con’s family, it was long dissolved. She’d obviously wounded Lord Bartholomew’s pride, and undoubtedly his other brothers wouldn’t be any happier with her offer.
She sighed deeply. Then again, Constantine was sitting in a dank cell somewhere because of her. And Oliver…
Her tears came unbidden.
The settee shifted as Lord Bartholomew rose. For a moment his silhouette shaded the doorway. Then he was gone.
She was awakened hours later just as unceremoniously as Lord Bartholomew had woken her the first time. He ushered her to a waiting carriage and climbed in behind her. She wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering in the cold night air, and waited until the horses pulled into a clip to ask, “What news?”
“One hundred guineas. The next Sessions commences in a few weeks.” He looked levelly across the carriage at her. “If I tell you that your father is the one wheedling Finn to press charges, will you be surprised?”
Her shivering turned to shaking. Lord Bartholomew felt around the interior until he turned up a velvet throw rug. He leaned across the divide and haphazardly draped it over her arms and the tops of her thighs. A more different man than Con she couldn’t have imagined, but at least he wasn’t a complete ogre.
“But Captain Finn must have also pressed charges?” She didn’t want to speak of her father’s betrayal. There was only one reason for him to have gone through the effort of filing a complaint. He hated her.
“Yes, Finn is named, too. But it seemed clear to the bailiff that the orders came from Lord Wyndham.”
His insistence did nothing to lift her spirits. “He believes me unfit to be a mother.”
Lord Bartholomew sat back. “I see.” The carriage drew to a halt and he opened the door then jumped down without waiting for the driver’s assistance. He lifted a hand to help her to the street, then gave the order for the driver to wait.
She went ahead of him and entered her townhouse. It was dark and quiet. A light flickered to life down the long hallway and she called out to her man, “Rand, it’s me. Please, don’t let me keep you from your bed.”
Rand entered the foyer anyway. “I’ve been concerned. Where’s Master Oliver?” He shined his candle around, barely glancing at Lord Bartholomew. When he realized Oliver wasn’t with them and—belatedly, Elizabeth realized—neither was Mrs. Dalton, he turned his attention to the intruder. “Is he causing you problems?” he asked, without the deference due a lord, or her visitor.
She was too tired to concern herself with his overstepping. “Lord Bartholomew is Lord Constantine’s brother. We’ll just be a moment in the study. Please, return to bed. I’ll be sure to turn the lock on the way out.”
Rand clearly didn’t approve of her explanation. But he handed her the candle and backed away. “I can find my way in the dark,” he said, but when she turned back to Lord Bartholomew, she felt Rand lurking in the hallway. It was a small comfort.
She led Lord Bartholomew to her study and fished a key from the pocket in her skirt. One hundred guineas barely dented her ready cash. But when she handed over the stack of notes, she inferred by the tic pulsing at his jaw that Lord Bartholomew felt every one of those bills as a slap in his face.
She didn’t press him to say anything. She didn’t need his thanks, at any rate. It was her fault Con needed to post bailment.
She showed Lord Bartholomew to the door, remembering again that Mrs. Dalton was stranded at Lord Constantine’s. Blast. The poor woman must be upset as well, especially to have been forgotten. Remorse piled onto her already-burdened shoulders. There was nothing as defeating as losing a child out of one’s very grip.
Her apology would have to wait until the morning. But before she dragged herself up the stair to her room, she returned to her study to verify she’d relocked her drawer. By the time she reached it she could barely lift her feet. She sagged into her chair, folding her arms on her desk and burying her face against them. The smell of wood and ink and paper comforted her.
She’d done this to him. It was a truth she’d never, ever let herself forget.
***
Con raised his head at the solid click of the turnkey unlocking the door. He shared a cell with twelve other men, some gentlemen like himself, plus a few commoners who could afford to pay garnish. Most didn’t bother to stir from their listlessness, even at this interruption. The Sessions were just weeks away—lucky him—and the gaol was crowded. Rancid. The other prisoners had laid out their pallets for the night, but not him. He didn’t want to think about sleeping in this place. The smooth granite walls offered no purchase. The close quarters allowed no privacy. High iron spikes lined every walk and exercise yard, intended to frighten the interred with the promise of gloom, death and suffering.
“You,” the turnkey said, pointing at Con with a crooked finger that had likely been broken once or thrice, “there’s a lawyer to see you.”
Con scrambled to his feet as best he could with his legs shackled by irons. Unlike the regular cells that lacked even a stick of furniture, this apartment set aside for the respectable class had a few chairs and stools scattered through it. Not enough for twelve men, however. Or even five.
He followed the turnkey through corridor after bleak corridor. His irons clanked against the cold stone. Each archway seemed narrower than the last. The gates between corridors had to be unlocked and relocked, one at a time, so that Con was never allowed to forget he was a prisoner.
Not that he could.
After passing through three more dungeon-like passages, they turned into a small receiving room. Bart stood, stoic and pensive, by a cold fireplace. His drawn, dark brows twitched with relief just a fraction before they dipped again. Con could have hugged him.
No, he needed to hug him. He was terrified of what was happening. He waited until the turnkey stepped outside. Then he crossed the room, clanking irons dragging behind him, and clasped his brother in a crushing embrace.
Bart awkwardly patted his back twice before shifting out of his grip. He put several feet of distance between them, but when he’d smoothed his drab coat and righted his cravat, he looked at Con with a mixture of sympathy and concern. “They moved you out of Giltspur Street Compter faster than I expected. Have you already been examined?”
Con set his hands on the small of his back and regarded the distance between Bart and himself. It felt like miles. If Bart weren’t a barrister, and specifically, his barrister, he wouldn’t even be allowed this private meeting. If Con were convicted, he’d spend years talking to his family through iron grates in the yard. It was a lonely future he daren’t contemplate.
“They took my accounting almost as soon as I was brought in,” Con said, not wanting to recall the events of the evening. Or the events that had brought him to this point. He was still too afraid to look closely at his crime. As if by pretending he hadn’t done wrong—or what the law considered wrong—he could keep himself from being sentenced. “I think they hurried through it because it will make an excellent story for the morning papers. There’s no hope of it being contained, is there?” He didn’t even allow himself to hope it. He was worse than an insolvent down-and-outer. He was a fiend. A felon. Adding a notorious courtesan into the mix only sealed his blackguardedness.
