by Merry Farmer
“Sorry, old chap,” Fretwell said, making light of the predicament as he pushed past Marshall and into the hall. He turned back to the store room and Alexandra, opening his mouth to speak.
“Now, if you please, Mr. Fretwell,” Marshall cut him off.
He didn’t do the man the courtesy of watching to see if he left. Instead, he turned back to Alexandra.
She was still brushing her skirt straight and buttoning her blouse. Her face was as red as a fever, and her dark eyes glistened with guilt. Marshall’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Why had he not thought to corner her in a closet to make violent love to her? Why did she not look at him the way she gazed at Fretwell, the bastard?
He cleared his throat, shoving away those errant thoughts as if they were poison. They were poison. He was not some lascivious bounder who took advantage of women. He was a father, a husb—
A fresh wave of pain broke over him.
“Dr. Dyson, I will see you in the office immediately,” he said, then pivoted on his heel to march away.
He had to. He needed the few scant seconds he would have as he made his way down the hall and the stairs, then into the office. He needed that time to mourn the shattering of the perfect image of Alexandra that he’d carried in his heart.
Those added seconds gave him the precious time he needed to step beyond the bitterness of the betrayal and the wounds she didn’t even know she had inflicted. When she came meekly into the office and shut the door behind her, he turned to her and asked, “Are you mad?” with more concern than bitterness.
“George and I have a past,” she made her excuse. “The connection has been renewed since his arrival for the house party.”
“I can see that,” Marshall said, pacing to keep from falling apart completely. “And I repeat, are you mad, woman?”
She balked at his intensity. “I don’t see how it is any of your business what I—”
“You are an employee of this hospital, Dr. Dyson,” Marshall cut her off. “You cannot carry out your dalliances on hospital premises, where any Tom, Dick, or Harry could catch you in the act.”
Her eyes fluttered down and she clasped her hands nervously in front of her, “I was just—”
“And besides that,” he went on, his rage down to manageable levels that he felt he could express without murdering her…or breaking down in tears, “your personal reputation is at stake.”
“My personal reputation,” she began as though she was going to mount an argument, but stopped.
Marshall stopped pacing, moving to stand in front of her. “I don’t know what the nature of your past relationship with Mr. Fretwell is, but believe me, I know his type.”
“And what type is that?” she replied. It would have been stronger, he felt, but for the guilt that made her lose her color.
“He is the type that wants one thing from a woman, Dr. Dyson, and will take it without impunity,” Marshall said, drawing himself up to his full height. “He will spoil you and leave you broken and disgraced.”
The guilt that had given him the courage to say what he needed to quickly flashed to fury in Alexandra’s eyes. “And what do you know about it, sir?” she demanded. “You do not know George.”
“I do not know him specifically,” Marshall insisted, “and yet, I know him. Have a care, Alexandra. He will destroy you.”
She started at his use of her given name. Silence hung between them as he finished his piece. Her eyes flashed with defiance.
“I am not an inexperienced simpleton,” she insisted. “I am a grown woman, responsible for her own life and her own choices.”
“That may be,” Marshall replied, forcing himself to remain as calm as possible, which wasn’t very, “but you are on the precipice of making a terrible mistake, all on your own.”
“I—”
“I am your friend, Alexandra,” he said with far, far more passion than he intended, stepping closer to her. The floodgates had opened, and he couldn’t stop himself from going on with, “I care about you. I care about your fortunes and your follies. I cannot sit idly by and watch you debase yourself to a man who is not worth the dust you shake off your shoes. You are better than this.”
She had opened her mouth to speak, but it snapped shut now. She stared at him, the emotions flitting across her face intense, and yet unreadable. Marshall couldn’t catch or hold onto a single one long enough to discern it.
Slowly, Alexandra’s back stiffened. She drew in a breath and held herself with poise. “I appreciate your concern for me. I understand it is kindly meant. But I am in control of myself and my choices. I have no need for you to play nursemaid to me.”
“I only—”
“Now if you will excuse me, Dr. Pycroft.” It was her turn to cut him off. “I believe we have patients to see to.”
She held her posture where she was for a moment, meeting his eyes and holding them with the firmness of a wrestler. Then she nodded once and turned to go.
Marshall let out a breath as she opened the door and marched through. Marched straight on to disaster, if he knew her the way he had grown to. He would have given anything, sold his soul to keep her from harm, but she wouldn’t listen to him. With an ache in his heart like a canker eating away at everything he held sacred, he knew there wasn’t a single thing he could do to keep her from the disaster she would run to with open arms.
Jason
Suicide in one of his hotels, bills coming in that were more extensive than he expected, Lady Elizabeth leaving the hospital presentation without so much of a word of parting to him—and that after being so promisingly attentive—and now Philomena Stratton. What next? Would the Dragon’s Head catch fire and burn to the ground?
“I was hoping to find you up here, Jason,” Lady Stratton purred, dragging him aside from Marshall and the others.
He forced himself to take deep breaths and ignore the growing ache in his groin.
“I live in Brynthwaite now, Lady Stratton, as I’m sure you know,” he answered.
“Oh yes, I know,” she hummed even lower.
The scent of her rosewater reminded him vividly of the deeper scent of her skin. It reminded him of the mewling sounds of pleasure she made when she came. Those memories squeezed him like a vise, causing a reaction that had him itching to glance down to be certain his coat covered everything.
“I’ve longed to see your new hotel,” Lady Stratton went on when he made no reply to her. They were far enough to the side of the room that she could stroke her hand down his arm, shifting to face him. “I’ve heard it’s as…pleasing as anything you’ve erected in London.”
She brushed the back of her hand down across his coat, attempting to slip her fingers between the buttons above his crotch. Jason flinched away from her.
“The Dragon’s Head is a small affair,” he told her, cringing over the words that came out before he could check himself. “It is modest in the extreme.”
“But certainly luxurious.” Lady Stratton inched closer to him, attempting to reach for him again. “I would love to have a private tour.”
This time Jason took a larger step back, clearing his throat. “Perhaps a tour could be arranged.”
What was he doing? Philomena was a wealthy widow. He wasn’t the only younger man she’d invited to her bed. She was a mature woman who enjoyed a tumble and was discreet in the ways she carried out her affairs. He was an unmarried man with a reputation for competence in that area that he wasn’t certain he deserved. Not only was there nothing ostensibly wrong with a tryst between the two of them, in some quarters it would be considered expected, normal.
Flossie would flay him alive.
The thought of her left him gasping for air and his cock aching for her. Now. Her. Damn the consequences. Good Lord, what was he thinking? Theirs was a business arrangement, not a…a relationship.
Lady Stratton bit her lip, half to entice, half as if she was trying to figure out his reticence. “I would not have accepted an invitation to this dr
owsy house party thrown by an inconsequential family were it not for the promise of seeing you again, Jason.”
“I’m flattered, Lady Stratton.” He attempted to execute a polite bow, but bending at the waist was more of a problem than it should have been.
“What is this ‘Lady Stratton’ business?” She lowered her voice and traced her fingers down his arm. “We were never so formal before.”
Sweating with agony, Jason took quick stock of the room. Matty and Marshall’s girls had left. Marshall himself was marching out to the hall with a glower firmly in place. The rest of the house guests had gone, leaving only a few of the more hale and hearty patients wandering into the room in search of a meal, while others worked rearranging the benches and tables in their usual formation. No one would overhear or care what he said to a London widow that nobody in Brynthwaite knew, but still he kept his voice low.
“I sincerely beg your pardon, Philomena. I know that we enjoyed a certain understanding while I was in London, but circumstances in my life have changed.”
“Change them back,” she ordered.
The firmness of her tone sent a jolt of weakness down his spine. Cajoling was one thing, but direct orders had always been his downfall.
“Would that I could,” he stammered.
Lady Stratton narrowed her eyes, assessing him from top to bottom. “Who is she?”
Jason swallowed. How would he explain Flossie?
No, that wasn’t what she was asking. He blinked. Took in a breath. “I have been attempting to present myself to Lady Elizabeth Dyson,” he answered, feeling more awkward than ever for his revelation.
“That pale chit?” Lady Stratton wrinkled her nose.
“Lady Elizabeth is the finest of women,” Jason defended her. The offense restored some of his hard to come by sense. “She is grace and beauty itself.”
“She wouldn’t know the first thing about satisfying a man like you,” Lady Stratton answered, managing to sound both coy and tempting. “You need a woman of skill and experience in your bed.”
Jason swallowed, wondering how he would be able to walk with the traitor between his legs as stiff as it was just then.
“Nevertheless,” he answered, working to maintain calm, “I have set my sights and I will pursue my target until she is mine. I must. Everything depends on it.”
“Hmm.” Lady Stratton arched a perfect, doubtful eyebrow, tapping her lips. “Well, when you grow tired of sport, or when you catch your prey and it proves as dull as I believe it will, you know where to find me.”
“Indeed.” It was a stupid word and a stupid response, but it served its purpose.
With one final arch look, Lady Stratton turned, glancing at him over her shoulder, then strolled out of the room, giving him a full view of her figure. She was remarkably well preserved for a woman nearing fifty. She was a remarkably skilled woman too. If Flossie could execute half of the gymnastics that Lady Stratton was capable of—
He cleared his throat and stopped his thoughts from continuing down that path. Flossie was a thousand times the woman Lady Stratton was. She was all softness and sweetness. She caressed him where others had only ever grabbed and clutched. She accepted him with her heart as well as her body.
He shook himself and pushed forward. Good God, what was he thinking? His arrangement with Flossie was one of convenience, something beneficial to the both of them. It wasn’t the sort of thing for him to compose verse over. And yet, as he left the hospital and glanced up at the billowing white clouds skittering across a deep blue sky, he found himself comparing Flossie’s eyes to that clear blue, her curves to the gentle swell of the hills beyond the lake.
“Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered, marching on toward the hotel. Flossie filled his senses while Lady E. captivated his thoughts, and now Philomena Stratton wanted to take a bite out of him as well. No wonder his body was raging out of control and driving him mad. He would be booking a room in Bedlam soon.
The hotel was pleasantly busy when he passed through its gates. The gardens had become an attraction in themselves, which drew business to the restaurant, just as he had designed. The front door was open as usual, and as he climbed the stairs to the lobby, he was pleased to see an older couple checking in, though apparently pleasure was not the emotion his appearance conveyed. Frank, the bellboy, scurried out of his way with wide, wary eyes as Jason strode across the marble and around the front desk to his office.
Flossie was sorting through a pile of papers on the side table against his office’s far wall. She took one look at him and said, “It wasn’t as bad as all that, was it?”
Of course. How could he even think to hide his true feelings from her.
“Marshall is not a natural public speaker, but once he hit his stride, he was engaging enough.”
He marched past her to sit gingerly at his desk, inching the chair in to completely hide what his coat was already concealing. If he could just sit there for a few minutes in silence, perhaps things would return to the state where they belonged.
Flossie turned away from the side table. The moment she glanced to the open door and Samuel busy at the desk beyond, Jason knew he wouldn’t escape deeper examination. She knew him too well, better than anyone, he supposed.
“I’m in the middle of writing out an order for McPherson’s,” she spoke so as not to be overheard, “but if you could wait half an hour, I could meet you upstairs.”
Heat and humiliation pulsed through him. What kind of wretched fool would telegraph his shortcomings so thoroughly.
“To be quite honest,” he said. “I just want to be alone for a bit.”
Now she was truly worried. Her delicate brow knit in a frown. Again, she glanced to the door, pursing her lips in frustration. She wanted to say something, wanted to talk to him. Knowing her, she wanted to console and commiserate with him. He wanted her to, but it simply wasn’t possible at this point without someone on the other side of the open door noticing her.
“We’ll talk later,” he said quickly and quietly, underlining his words with an earnest look.
That was enough for her. She sent him a smile that was good as an embrace, then politely left the room, shutting the door behind her.
The moment he was alone in his office, Jason let out a breath, sinking to lay his head on the blotter.
“No, no, no,” he moaned. Life was so much simpler when London stayed in London. That horrible, wicked part of him kept conjuring images of Lady Stratton, splayed and panting for him as she had been during their last assignation. She may have sighed with pleasure, but only because she couldn’t see inside of him to see how thoroughly he despised himself for indulging in her. She’d been one of too many bored society matrons who had heard of his reputation for stamina and put it and him to the test. The memories made him sick to his stomach.
A brief knock sounded on the door, and before he could tell whoever it was to go away, the door flew open.
“Sir, I must speak with you,” Samuel demanded, already in a temper.
Jason snapped straight so fast that blood rushed to his head, threatening to make him pass out. At least Samuel had the good grace to look surprised at finding his employer with his head on his desk.
“What?” Jason barked, pretending nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Samuel cleared his throat and came further into the room, shutting the door all but a crack behind him.
“Sir, it’s that Flossie,” he began.
If he could have without raising any eyebrows, Jason would have rolled his eyes and snorted over the man’s blatant jealousy. He was as bad as a wallflower ignored at her coming out.
“What about her?” he snapped instead.
Samuel’s head of steam simmered down to a resentful frown. “She gets above herself, sir. Just because you’ve assigned her a few special tasks, she thinks she’s more than just a maid.”
“She is more than just a maid,” Jason replied, utterly unamused by the conversation. “She is a
competent worker with a head for business who can be relied upon and trusted with complex and delicate tasks.”
Samuel balked, taken aback. “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but she puts on airs with the other members of staff.”
“Such as yourself?” Jason cut to the heart of things. He didn’t have time for this.
“Well, sir, if you put it that way.”
“Flossie has earned her position,” Jason said, gripping the arms of his chair to keep himself from shouting. “She demonstrates effectiveness daily. If you would like to be respected as she is, I suggest you quit your complaining and demonstrate with actions that you are equal to her quality of work. Do I make myself clear?”
Samuel had gone pale and splotchy throughout Jason’s speech. He looked as though he might soil himself, or else fly into a rage. He did neither. Instead he said, “Yes, sir,” through clenched teeth, then turned sharply and bolted out through the door, shutting it behind him. Slamming it behind him was more like, but Jason didn’t feel like dealing with the consequences of an insubordinate employee just then.
For the second time in five minutes, he blew out a breath and let his head flop to his desk, on his arms this time. Under the desk, his erection was only slightly withered by Samuel’s idiocy. Nothing could be done to stem the tide of disaster that seemed set to wash over him. He was right back where he had been a month ago, frustrated, in pain, and reasonably certain that he was on the verge of losing his mind.
Lawrence
Grasmere was a small but thriving town, close enough to Brynthwaite for a day trip, but far enough away that news didn’t readily travel between the two locations. Lawrence hopped off the train and headed straight for the town’s main street, searching storefronts and buildings for any clue that would lead him to….
Lead him to what? That was the question he’d been asking himself through the entire journey. He’d been asking himself all week, if he was being honest. Everything that Albright had told him at the hotel opening had swirled and fermented in his mind. Murder, secrets, missing identities. None of the facts matched up with what he had come to know about Matty. He’d watched her, day in and day out, paid close attention to her nature and subtly coaxed his way into her thoughts as much as possible. He’d made love to her night after night, then kept her awake with pillow talk, hoping she would remember something, confess something, before catching up to herself. Nothing she’d said or done had given him any reason to believe she was a murderer.
