“You’re a fool, Elizabeth. Just as your father said.”
If he’d slapped her, he couldn’t have stung her more.
“You would be no help at all for, believe me, I have given the matter serious thought over the years. If there was a way out of this, I would have thought of it by now. No. I will face the charges, be convicted, and then—” He splayed his hands. “Who knows.”
“Who knows?” she cried. “You said it yourself, they will hang you.”
“Perhaps.”
“And I am not supposed to be bothered by that?”
“Why should you care?”
She drew back, her eyes stinging for some unfathomable reason. Goodness, she wasn’t going to cry, was she? “After what happened this morning, you could ask me that?”
“What happened was sex, Elizabeth. Nothing but sex. You’re too naive to realize that, but I assure you, that was all it was. I seduced you. And in doing so, I certainly hope you’re not going to bore me with protestations of love.”
“Love?” she hurled back, hurt by his callousness. “I think not.”
“The first wise thing you’ve said all morning.”
“I do not love you,” she said, but God help her, something felt wrong inside as she said it. “And what happened earlier might have been sex, as you say, but it does not change the fact that I am your wife. As such, I intend to stand by your side.”
He came at her then, his eyes blazing in a way she’d never seen before. It wasn’t like upstairs after they’d made love. This was different.
“No, you will not,” he gritted out. “You are leaving, my dear. The game is over. You’ve gotten your reputation back. You are now a duchess. Do as most women in your position would do and use the title to your advantage.”
She could only stare up at him, shaking her head. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
He didn’t answer, merely stared down at her.
“Have you so little faith in me then?” she asked. “So little faith in humankind?”
He didn’t answer.
“Lucien, you might be cleared of all charges. They could judge you innocent.”
To that, he merely lifted a black brow. It dawned on her then, what he was doing. It hit her in a flash that made her unable to breathe for a second. “You want to be found guilty, don’t you?”
He drew back. “Do not be absurd.”
“You do,” she accused. “What is more, you’re afraid to let me help you.”
His eyes flashed fire as he glared down at her. “Poppycock.”
“No,” she breathed, feeling an odd sort of desperation fill her. “It’s true. You want to hang.”
“Enough,” he shot in a voice loud enough that the crystal brandy glasses hummed. “You will leave my house. And in doing so, you will save yourself.”
“Save myself because your cause is lost? That is what you mean, isn’t it?”
“That does it,” he gritted out, swiveling on his heel.
“Where are you going?” she called, a sudden spurt of anger stemming from helplessness making her follow him.
He spun to face her again, his eyes enraged. “I am going to order your things packed. Then you are going away.”
She lifted herself to her full height. “No, I am not.”
“We will see about that,” he clipped, turning again.
She watched him go, watched the door close behind him. Only when she heard his feet hit the stairs did she turn, and then to cross to the window and stare out, a habit of hers, she realized. Something she always did in times of trouble. And this was most definitely trouble.
She wiped away a tear of frustration. Perhaps she should just leave. Certainly staying wasn’t much of an option. But if she did that, then he’d have no one. And damn it all to hell. The man could have left her at the altar. He could have deserted her. Caused her ruination. But he hadn’t. He’d married her. That spoke volumes to his character, she admitted. And while she didn’t agree with the way he’d handled his brother’s death, for the first time she could understand why he’d done what he did. The man had been wracked by guilt. Now, in some odd way, he’d decided it was time to pay.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Turning on her heel, she followed the path he’d taken out the door, pausing for a second in the main hall. Should she confront him again? But, no. It was too soon. Besides, she needed to get her thoughts in order. Needed to present him with an indisputable reason as to why she should be allowed to help him.
And so she went to the front door instead, deciding she would ride her new horse. She’d be damned if she stayed here and let him force her from their home.
When Elizabeth returned, he was gone. It happened so fast, so suddenly, she could barely comprehend it as she stood in the drawing room she and Lucien had occupied less than an hour ago.
“Came for him with a cart,” John was explaining, his face grave. “Just showed up at the door with a Writ of Indictment and took him away.”
Elizabeth felt her legs give way. Fortunately, there was a chair nearby. She clutched at its back. “What do I do?”
“What he wants you to do. Stay out of it.”
“But I can’t.” She looked up at John. “He needs me. Surely you understand that?”
“I understand that he cares enough for you that he doesn’t want you to become involved.”
“But I am involved.”
“No, you are not. You’re married to him. That is all.”
“Devil take it,” she swore aloud for the first time in her life. And it felt good. “You sound just like him.”
John gave her a small smile, but only a small one, and she had to remind herself that he’d known Lucien a long time.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Testify on his behalf.”
“Has he asked you?”
He shrugged. “No, but he will.”
“How do you know that?” She got up from her chair, clutched his arm. “John, I don’t think he wants to fight the charges. I think he wants to be convicted of the crime.”
John drew back from her, almost as if he didn’t like her touch. “Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Of course he doesn’t wish to hang.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I could see it in his eyes. He’s convicted himself of the crime; now I think he’s decided to pay for it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I wish I were.”
“You don’t know Lucien. He may be a saphead at times, but he is no dunderhead. He knows what happened was an accident.”
She came forward, clutching his arm again. “Has he told you what really happened?”
He drew away from her again. “What do you mean?”
She stared up at him. “He was dueling Henry, not Lord Chalmers.”
John drew back, his blue eyes wide. “Impossible.”
“I assure you, it is not.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“Before they came for him.”
John looked momentarily incapable of speech, his eyes growing unfocused as he stared off. “I never knew.”
She drew herself up, wanting to touch him again. To get through to him. “Do you see what I mean? Do you understand now why he would be so guilt-ridden?”
He didn’t answer, just stared blindly at the floor. “He never told me.”
“He would not,” she said. “Frankly, I think he buried the event deep inside.”
But John wasn’t paying attention. “It all makes sense now.”
Elizabeth tilted her head at him. “What do you mean?”
Turning to face her, John said, “Lucien’s cousin came here to visit once. I overheard part of a conversation they had. Greshe was saying to Lucien that he had much to lose by not agreeing to his terms. I thought they were talking about business, but then Lucien said he cared not a whit if he agreed for it was never in his plans to w
ed. He said that Greshe could have the title, for all he cared.” He looked her in the eye. “I never understood what Greshe had been talking about, and when Lucien married you, I assumed it was nothing. But now I realize Greshe was talking about the duel.”
“Blackmail,” Elizabeth whispered. “Twice.”
“What do you mean?”
She told him about the countess, shaking her head as she did so. “No wonder Lucien doesn’t trust people easily. Everywhere he’s turned, people have let him down.”
“But not us.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply, hope setting her heart pounding. “Will you help me?”
“What say you I escort you to London?”
She flew at him, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, John, thank you.”
But he pushed her away abruptly, his voice gruff and filled with something harsh as he said, “Best you save your hugs for Lucien. He will need them.”
All sins cast long shadows
—IRISH PROVERB
Chapter Twenty
The trip to London was one of the most uncomfortable and excruciating in Lucien’s life. There were no stops. No rests, just a ceaseless charge broken up only by Lucien’s need to pee, something he was sure his captor would rather have not remembered judging by his near unwillingness to let him use the facilities. Compounding it all was the fact that his wrists were bound with iron chains, the magistrate charged with bringing him in having forged them onto his wrists at first opportunity. Standing in the blacksmith’s yard, people gawking as he was put in chains, was not an experience Lucien cared to repeat. It didn’t help matters that his captor had the personality of a stepped-on snake, the man having an obvious chip on his shoulder where “swells” were concerned.
And through it all, God help him, he thought of Elizabeth. Thank God she’d been out of the castle when they’d come for him, for he had no doubt she’d have thrown herself upon the carriage, pushed the magistrate out the door then found a way to set him free.
She was that kind of woman.
But now John would take charge of her. And he had no doubt his friend would do as instructed and keep her away from London. Oddly enough, the thought depressed him.
Silly of him, he knew, but it was all for the best. ’Twas why he’d been so harsh on her. Why he’d said such callous things. She needed to realize that she was better off without him, for the way he saw it, his conviction was a foregone conclusion.
They crossed the Thames over Blackfriar’s Bridge, then turned right toward Newgate. All too soon they came to a stop before the prison’s main entrance, the stone-and-mortar building stretching four stories high. The reality of what he was to face hit him then, even though he would have sworn it’d hit him several times before. But as he stepped into Newgate’s tall shadow—the smell of it all but bringing him to his knees—he realized life as he’d known it was over.
He tilted his head back. Henry, old man, do you see how I go to my fate?
He closed his eyes, thinking that this might be his last glimpse of freedom for a while. The magistrate grabbed his chains. Lucien opened his eyes, feeling rather doglike as he was led toward the main gate.
“Name?” asked Newgate’s keeper as they paused before his heavy oak desk. ’Twasn’t a desk, really, but rather an oak board with four legs. Years of use was scratched into its surface, the corners broken away as if it’d been tipped by one too many unruly prisoners.
“Lord Lucien St. Aubyn, duke of Ravenwood.”
The keeper looked up from his equally beaten chair, his elderly face pinched into an expression of disdain. Little light penetrated through the rat’s maze of corridors that was Newgate, but what light managed to filter in illuminated a face and eyes devoid of any humanity.
“A lord, eh?” the man drawled, his ancient gray wig a throwback to past times. Lucien had no doubt that here was a man who enjoyed his position of power. “What’s he charged with?”
“Murder,” the magistrate answered.
Gray brows that matched the wig lifted. “Bored with being a pampered duke, were you, so you went and killed a man?”
For the first time since he’d been taken from his home, Lucien felt his anger return. “Actually, I shot my brother, which is an urge I’ve no doubt your own siblings feel on a regular basis.”
Whether the man didn’t realize he’d just been insulted—rather smartly, too, if Lucien didn’t miss his mark—or if he were inured to such remarks, Lucien didn’t know. But whatever his reaction was, he hid it well, merely picking up his massive black quill to write down the prisoner’s name, the tines on the feather dipping and swaying with the motion.
“Admission fee,” he snapped.
Lucien lifted his brows. “I’m afraid I don’t have any coin on me, my good man. Care to advance me a loan?”
The man looked up, eyes narrowed. “No, sir, I do not.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to miss this evening’s festivities.”
The man blinked up at him, the right side of his face twitching. “Put ’im in with the rest o’ them,” he snapped. “We’ll collect ’is money later.”
A man stepped out of the shadows, as big and burly as the magistrate was tall and thin. He took the chains, Lucien smiling at the magistrate. “Quite a pleasure making your acquaintance.”
The man didn’t so much as crack a smile. Not that Lucien blamed him. He didn’t feel particularly like smiling, either.
“If ya balk, I’ll clobber you over the ’ead,” said the turnkey.
Looking away from his former captor, Lucien lifted a brow. “That sounds rather appealing, my good man, given the fact that I would then be unable to smell.”
The man just grunted in response, tugging on the chains as he led Lucien away. Unfortunately, the stench as they moved deeper into the prison was reminiscent of being downwind from a pen of bovines. Only worse. A horrible clanging rattled down the narrow passages, prisoners calling out obscene words as they banged upon the bars with metal spoons. All of the prisoners were men, though they varied in age. The young interned with the old. Hardened criminals put in with first-time offenders. Each room holding between five and fifteen prisoners, some of them mere children.
It was toward one of those rooms that they stopped, the only light that from the torches that flickered and sputtered a sooty mess onto the filthy floor. There were eight men in the yard the turnkey opened up. Each and every one looked him up and down as he entered, the turnkey sliding the chain out of the rings forged to his manacles.
“ ’Ere now,” drawled a pale-skinned man. “What ’ave we ’ere?”
“A regular swell,” a younger man said.
“Aye,” said yet another. “Wager that jacket alone would cost more than all me belongings combined.”
The door clanged shut behind him.
Lucien had never felt so alone.
He drew himself up, wishing he’d taken up boxing in previous years. But he’d refused to risk damaging his face. Only now did he realize that perhaps the object of boxing was to learn how to protect one’s face.
“How do you do, gentlemen?” He bowed. “My name is Lucien St. Aubyn, and I am the duke of Ravenwood. Ten shillings to each man who keeps away from me, money that will be paid when my money arrives.”
His words had the desired effect. They looked less like an advancing pack of wolves than curious hens as they stared him up and down.
“Speaks like a swell,” one observed.
“Smells like a swell,” said another.
“By George, I must be a swell,” Lucien finished.
They didn’t look amused, but they stayed away. That was a relief. But his legs felt like wilted lettuce, and his pulse thumped in his chest as he turned to stare at the turnkey’s retreating back. Another yard of prisoners stared back at him. He looked away, trying to ignore their calls and clattering.
God, how did he get here?
He’d killed his brother.
It felt unreal. Like a bad dream,
all the clichés he’d ever heard. Only this wasn’t a cliché. It was real. He was in Newgate, indicted on charges of murder, the result of an inquest the London magistrate had told him about, one run by the Attorney General, a man who Lucien knew didn’t like him. Nobody liked him, the result of leading a hedonic life that had outraged more people than he cared to admit. Now they would get even.
Well, bully for them, he told himself. He’d suffered their ill behavior before. This time it wouldn’t be so painful.
Or so he told himself.
The trip to London was interminable, but Elizabeth relished the freedom being a married lady evoked. And a duchess, no less. She used that to her advantage, spending the coin John had brought with them to ensure their quick passage.
Only, it was all for naught.
“What do you mean he refuses to see me?”
They had decided John should approach Lucien first speak on her behalf, then come get her at the inn they’d stopped at. Only it hadn’t worked. “He was furious with me for bringing you here.”
Elizabeth stared up at John. They were close to Newgate, Elizabeth in too much of a hurry to drop her trunks off at Lucien’s town house. Thankfully, they’d secured a private parlor, the hum of conversation and the stale smell of old food wafting around them.
“He should not be furious. He should know I would bring myself to London with or without you.”
“He trusted me to stop you from doing that.”
“I am not a puppet to dance at men’s strings.”
But John shook his head. “There is more.”
And the dire look in his face made her face pale “What?”
“The Bank of England has frozen his assets.”
They were not the words she’d been expecting, so it took her a moment to process them.
“They will not let me draw money. After our trip here, I only had enough coin to pay for Lucien’s admission at Newgate and then his bedding.”
She looked up at him, her face feeling frozen. “But how can that be?”
John shrugged. “I spoke with the Attorney General. Elizabeth, the man is out for blood. He claims Lucien orchestrated everything. That he acquired the dukedom and his fortune by improper means. Therefore, he has the legal right to freeze those assets on behalf of the legal heir, whoever that might be, once Lucien is executed.”
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