“Yes,” he said softly. Then he bent his head, and pulling her close, he kissed her. Her arms slid around his neck, and her passion flared up to match his own.
After a long time, he lifted her in his arms and carried her over to his bed.
Bethia lay still, encircled by his arms, her head on his shoulder. “I do not think I will ever forgive you,” she said.
Her words would have hurt, except that he could hear the smile in her voice. “For what?” he asked, stretching out until his joints popped and then pulling her closer.
“For wasting all those nights,” she murmured, stroking his chest and dropping little kisses on his face and neck. “We should have done this that first night in your cottage ... and every night since.”
“Forgive me. I have been a fool.”
“Most men are,” she said with a laugh.
He made no attempt to dispute her statement. There were more pleasurable ways to spend the rest of this night than in pointless arguing. Besides, his wife was correct—he needed to do everything he could to make up for opportunities they had missed.
The force of her love was so great, Bethia felt as if she could surely prevent the sun from rising—as if she could by sheer will power keep the day from dawning.
But the light coming in through the window was already chasing the shadows back into the corners of the room, and on the street outside the milkmaids were calling their wares.
Bethia had not slept a wink all night, nor had her husband. They had loved each other until they were exhausted, and then they had talked of everything except what this day would bring.
“I do not want you to come to the inquest today,” Digory said, breaking the silence.
“I must,” she replied. “I must be there with you.”
“There is nothing you can do. No one will be allowed to testify except the coroner, Lord Blackstone, and I, and the magistrate will not believe what I say.”
“I cannot bear for you to face them alone,” she protested.
“And I cannot bear for you to watch.”
You ask too much, she wanted to say. You cannot know the pain you are causing me. But she could feel his pain in the tension of his body, in the words he had to force out, and she knew she had no choice. She would do what he asked, no matter what it cost her.
Lady Letitia was one of the few women present at the inquest, and as she had anticipated, Digory was bound over for trial on the word of Lord Blackstone alone.
The mood of the spectators was ugly, and the mob waiting outside was even worse. Were it not for Big Davey, she would never have made it back to her coach, and she could only be thankful that Digory had refused to allow Bethia to attend.
Just as the vehicle began to move, the door was jerked open, and Lady Letitia swung her cane up to repel the roughly dressed intruder. Fortunately, she recognized Lord Cavenaugh just in time to check her blow.
He was no longer dressed as a dandy, or even as a gentleman, and looking into his eyes, Lady Letitia could see why Digory thought him the most dangerous man in London.
“Matthew and I are going to speak with Lord Quissenworth,” he said. “We may be able to persuade him to approach our beloved Prince Regent about a pardon. And if that option fails, we shall be making other arrangements on our own.”
Without waiting for the coach to stop, he opened the door and swung down, leaving her to go on alone to the Rendels’ residence, where Adeline was keeping Bethia company.
Lady Letitia was not looking forward to telling them about the outcome of the inquest, but Bethia surprised her. Instead of weeping and wringing her hands, she said, “I shall not let them hang Digory. If I have to kill Lord Blackstone myself to prevent him from testifying against my husband, then I shall do it.”
Her determination was such that Lady Letitia could only marvel at how completely Digory failed to understand his wife’s character. This was no timid little mouse who cringed at a harsh word, or hid herself away in a corner, afraid to face what life offered.
“It is clear how Lord Blackheart came by his wickedness,” Adeline said indignantly. “Bethia has been showing me the letters the old earl wrote to Mr. Rendel’s mother. He promised—not once, but many times—to marry her. See—it is all right here.”
Taking the sheaf of papers that were shoved in her face, Lady Letitia said, “I agree that it is unfair, but I do not think the courts will be willing to hear a suit for breach of promise of marriage brought by a dead woman against an equally dead man.”
“It is not only breach of promise,” Bethia said bitterly. “He married her by special license, got her with child, and then informed her that the marriage was invalid because she had not secured her father’s permission. That is out and out fraud, for you will never convince me that he did not plan such action from the very beginning.”
Lady Letitia was about to repeat that it was indeed quite unfair, when she realized that not all the papers that had been thrust into her hands were love letters. There was also a certificate of marriage and a letter from the late earl’s solicitor.
She herself had no real grasp of English common law ... except for the part that pertained to marriage. And there were certain discrepancies in these documents that the courts might find very interesting.
Deftly, she steered the conversation away from the late earl. “Do not despair totally, my child,” she said. “Even though none of us were allowed to testify at the inquest, all of Digory’s friends can appear at the trial as character witnesses.”
Her two young companions immediately began discussing what strategy might work in the courtroom, and they did not notice when she slipped the two crucial documents into her reticule, leaving the love letters on a side table.
Once that was accomplished, she wasted no more time. “If you do not mind, I shall take my leave now.”
“Oh, must you?” Bethia asked. “I was hoping you could stay for dinner so that we can make our plans.”
Lady Letitia had already made her plans, and the first order of business was to send for Digory’s solicitor, but she did not tell Bethia that. There was, after all, no point in getting the child’s hopes up when it might all come to naught.
So she pleaded exhaustion, and Bethia and Adeline were instantly all solicitude, reproaching themselves for not having noticed her fatigue, which was in truth nothing but playacting.
“And could I perhaps borrow Big Davey again?” Lady Letitia asked, making her voice as feeble as possible, which was not at all easy, considering that she was filled with righteous energy. “I may yet run into trouble on the way home, and my coachman is rather elderly.”
Another plumper, but Bethia and Adeline swallowed it whole, even insisting upon helping her out to her coach as if she were too ancient and decrepit to walk unaided.
Ah, the gullibility of the young—it was really a crime to take advantage of it. But at least her motives were good.
As soon as they were out of sight of Bethia’s house, Lady Letitia cast off her die-away airs and rapped on the roof of the coach with her cane. The coach stopped, and a moment later Big Davey opened the door, looking as if he expected to find her prostrate on the seat.
“Do you know who Mrs. Rendel’s solicitor is?” she demanded.
“Aye, that’d be Mr. Kidby,” Big Davey said without blinking an eye.
“Then fetch him to my house at once,” she ordered. “We’ve not a moment to lose.”
Lord Quissenworth was not happy when Cavenaugh and Edington were ushered into his office. He had a strong suspicion that they had come about that Rendel fellow, and he did not have the slightest desire to get mixed up in such a sordid affair.
Unfortunately, he could think of no way to prevent his two former agents from dumping the problem into his lap.
“There is nothing I can do,” he said when they finished presenting their case. “I have no knowledge of the event—I was not at Almack’s yesterday evening, and I do not believe I have ever actually met Rendel, so m
y testimony as to his character would be worthless.”
“We aren’t interested in having you testify,” Cavenaugh said. “We want you to persuade Prinny to grant Rendel a pardon.”
“Rendel was invaluable to you when we were fighting the French,” Edington said. “You owe it to him.”
Lord Quissenworth would have laughed in their faces, but he had a niggling feeling that any levity at this point would be extremely foolish if not actually dangerous. “There is not the slightest possibility that the Prince Regent will intervene,” he said, keeping his voice calm despite the unreasonableness of their demand. “If it were only a case of murder, I am sure I could persuade him to commute the sentence to transportation. But I am equally certain that he will never forgive Rendel for pretending to be a gentleman. His Highness will take the deception as an affront to his dignity. So you see, there is nothing I can do. My hands are tied.”
As if he had not heard a single word, Cavenaugh said, “Let me explain to you just how it will be. Simply put, it matters not what the verdict is, Rendel will not hang. Nor will he be transported. If he is found guilty, then he will mysteriously escape from jail and never be seen in England again. Do you understand me?”
So venomous was the look in Cavenaugh’s eyes that a chill went up and down Lord Quissenworth’s spine. For the first time he began to believe all the wildly improbable stories he had heard about the activities of his former agent.
“If we have to do this without your cooperation,” Edington added dispassionately, “some guard or innocent bystander may be hurt. But the choice is yours.”
“I shall see what—” Lord Quissenworth cleared his throat and started again. “I shall investigate the possibilities.”
“Good,” Edington said. “We will return tomorrow for another discussion. And you may rest assured that if you need money for bribes, I shall willingly provide whatever amount is required.”
Lord Quissenworth was not reassured in the slightest. But once the other two men left the room, he was at least able to breathe again and his heartbeat slowed to a more normal speed.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of arranging for extra guards to be put on that cursed imposter Rendel. After all, what his former subordinates were demanding was totally unethical and completely illegal, and if it ever came out that he had participated—even though he was coerced—then his career would come to an abrupt end.
On the other hand, if he did not cooperate fully, he rather suspected that he would spend the rest of his life—which might be considerably shorter than the three score and ten allotted to men—looking over his shoulder.
This was clearly a case where prudence demanded that he bend a few rules, Lord Quissenworth decided, or if necessary, he was even prepared to break the law. It was, after all, morally justified since Rendel had in truth served England well in her hour of need.
A bit more thinking along that line, and Lord Quissenworth managed to persuade himself that it was nothing more nor less than his patriotic duty to rescue Rendel, the unsung hero of England, from imprisonment.
Lady Letitia did not waste any time on polite formalities. As soon as Owens ushered in Mr. Kidby, she handed him the letter written over a quarter of a century earlier.
“Do you see what caught my eye?” she asked.
“Indeed I do,” the solicitor said. “If I were writing a letter like this, I would be much more specific. Something along the lines of, ‘The Ecclesiastical Court of whatever, meeting on the n-th day of whenever, has ruled that the marriage of whoever, et cetera, has been declared invalid.’ Yet all this Mr. Thwaite says is, ‘Your marriage to the Earl of Blackstone is invalid.’ In addition, I am not at all sure that a court would have dissolved the marriage for the reason herein stated, unless the father of the bride petitioned for redress. I could be wrong, but the marriage laws are not all black and white. There are a lot of gray areas in cases such as this one.”
“I have one more document,” Lady Letitia said, handing him the marriage certificate.
He read it swiftly, then whistled under his breath. “My suspicions have now become a certainty. The only way the late earl could have had this marriage declared invalid is if he perjured himself. The law is quite clear—a widow does not need anyone’s permission to remarry, no matter how young she is.”
“Then you think we have a case?”
“If we can prove that Mrs. Rendel’s first marriage was legal and that her first husband was dead at the time of her marriage to the earl, then I think we may have a very interesting day in court. There is, of course, a chance that the earl had the foresight to destroy the pertinent records years ago. Or the parish church may have burned since then, or the sexton may have kept inadequate records in the first place. But I shall send my junior partner himself to Cornwall. Do you have any idea where the first marriage and the death of the first husband may have occurred?”
“No, but I can provide your partner with an escort. Big Davey Veryan will doubtless be able to supply the information you need, and in addition, he will be able to persuade even the most recalcitrant vicar to cooperate.”
“I believe I will also send clerks to each of the ecclesiastical courts that would have had jurisdiction in this case, just to be sure that we are not wrong in our supposition that there was no actual hearing. And to hedge our bets, since we do not know for sure that the necessary documents still exist, I shall secure the services of the best barrister in the City and instruct him to do his best to delay the actual trial,” Mr. Kidby said, “although realistically speaking, we have little chance of gaining more than a few extra days. Too many important people will be demanding instant justice.”
“Or instant injustice, as the case may be,” Lady Letitia said.
Chapter Sixteen
That evening Bethia delayed as long as possible, but eventually she had to retire to her bed, which was empty and cold even though at Mrs. Drake’s behest the maid had brought up a pair of hot bricks wrapped in flannel.
Absolutely miserable, Bethia shivered in the dark. How could she sleep without Digory beside her? Who would chase away the nightmares that still tormented her?
He had promised that she would never again have to sleep alone ... and he was a man of his word ... which meant she was not—could not be—alone.
Closing her eyes, she could almost feel his arms pulling her close, almost hear his words calming her fears, and she knew he had spoken the truth.
Nothing could keep them apart. Reality was not this empty bed; reality was the two of them together forever. Immeasurably comforted by this sense of his presence, she whispered, “My love, although you are not close enough to feel the touch of my hand, and you cannot hear my words, you will always be in my heart. No matter what happens, no one can ever truly separate us.”
Her sleep that night was deep and dreamless, and she woke up the next morning with no more fears. While she did not precisely bounce out of bed, at least she was able to face the day with a degree of resolution she had not thought possible the evening before.
Which was a good thing, because rather than the usual stack of invitations, there was only a single letter on the tray when the maid brought up Bethia’s hot chocolate. When Bethia broke the seal and unfolded the paper, she discovered it was neither an invitation nor a note of sympathy and support.
Instead, it was a cleverly drawn caricature entitled, “The Barbarian at the Gate,” and it depicted her husband dressed in knee breeches and a peasant’s smock and wearing a hangman’s noose around his neck instead of a cravat. He was banging on the door of Almack’s, but from the window above him, the patronesses were emptying a bowl of punch over his head.
Bethia’s first reaction was anger, but almost at once she began to chuckle. What the person who had sent this had forgotten was that the barbarians had been the victors—they had swept across Europe and had conquered not only the more primitive countries, but also the vast and mighty and “civilized” Roman Empire.
W
ith mild surprise she realized she was cast from the same mold as her grandfather, and anyone who thought she had inherited nothing from him except a vast fortune was in for a rude awakening. Admittedly, he had on more than one occasion suffered minor setbacks, but he had always managed to convert apparent defeat into solid triumph.
At this moment she was not sure precisely what she could do to retrieve her husband from jail, but there was bound to be a solution if she put her mind to it. And Digory himself should be able, with the proper encouragement, to think of some way out of this coil. After all, according to Little Davey her husband was a dab hand at getting out of tight spots.
She realized that Digory would doubtless forbid her to visit him in jail, but he would also soon discover that she was not one to follow orders blindly. Although now that she thought about it, he had already noticed that character flaw when they were at Carwithian Cove. Even so, he did not yet know how stubborn she could be when the situation warranted it.
Leaving the rest of her hot chocolate untouched, she climbed out of bed and rang for Mrs. Drake.
Having ample funds, Digory had no problem paying four times the usual cost for a cot in Newgate Prison, and he thus secured for himself a private cell. The accommodations still left a lot to be desired.
It was not, however, the hardness of his bed nor the noise of the other prisoners that kept him awake, rather it was concern for his wife, coupled with no small degree of anxiety about his own fate that kept him tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning.
When he finally did sink into a deep sleep, he was all too soon awakened by Youngblood, who arrived with a change of clothing and assurances that there were no major problems back home. “Cook quit without giving notice. Claimed her heart was too weak for her to live in the same house with a murderer. Two of the kitchen maids went with her, and they was all three roundly booed by the rest of the servants. Mr. Uppleby has already taken steps to secure replacements.”
The Counterfeit Gentleman Page 22
