Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  She tilted her chin. “I have been trying to see you for days.”

  He smiled. “I have been a bit indisposed.”

  She walked toward him, a pity, for as she drew nearer the heavenly smell of her enveloped him again. It shocked him how much he’d missed that scent … how much he wanted to inhale it now. To simply drink his fill of her. Instead, he held himself erect.

  “Stop it, Lucien. Stop treating this as if it’s all a joke. You always do that. When you’re uncomfortable, you cover it up with humor.”

  His smile turned sardonic. “I assure you, my dear, Newgate is hardly a humorous place to be.”

  “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “No?”

  She lost her patience then. He could see it in the way she stiffened suddenly. The way her little hands clenched. The way her mouth trembled as if she fought back tears. “How dare you?” she said. “How dare you do this to me?”

  “My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She went from anger to rage then, coming at him with her hands lifted as if she’d strike him again. But she didn’t, just came to a halt before him, then dropped her arms to her sides as if embarrassed by her outburst.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about. You gave up. Judged yourself guilty. Made a jest of the whole proceedings by refusing to allow me to hire someone to defend you.”

  He didn’t say anything. Truth be told, he was afraid if he did, she might give in to the urge to hit him. Lord knew it looked like she would.

  “At least when you compromised me I didn’t run away from my problem. I faced the consequences of what happened with my head held high, even though I knew every member of the ton was nodding his head saying, ‘See, I knew this would happen to her. She’s common.’ ”

  Her eyes had begun to glisten. “But you! You bowed your head and accepted your fate without a fight. You will make me a widow. And all because you were too wrapped up in your own self-pity to realize there were people who cared for you, who—God help them—love you. People like John. Like your staff. Like your tenants, who have worked alongside you for years. People who couldn’t afford the price of a post, but who wrote to me nonetheless, somehow managing the fee so that they could tell me what a good man you are and how they were praying for you.” She swallowed back more tears. “And after reading their missives, I had to go to Westminster and watch you give up.”

  “I did not give up.”

  She came at him then, grabbing the lapels of his dark-gray jacket. “Yes, you did,” she all but screamed, a tear breaking free. “Damn you, Lucien, you did.”

  She let go of him then, turned away, her shoulders shaking in a way that gave evidence to tears.

  He stood there, numb, and yet, not. His heart beat against his chest hard enough to vibrate the fabric.

  “You did give up,” she said through her tears, slowly turning to face him again, the smell of her drifting on a breeze to reach him once more. But it was the sight of the tears running down her face, that nearly broke him. “You gave up on us all.”

  She took a deep breath, her hands swiping at her face. “But the worst of it is that I can forgive you for giving up on me. I knew you, after all, a short time. But I can’t forgive you for letting everyone else down.” She shook her head. “You let down John, your best friend, a man who cried for you as I did when he heard the verdict. Pity yourself, Lucien, but pity those who love you more, for it is they who will weep the hardest when they hang you.”

  She stood there, facing him, more tears running down her cheeks. For the longest time, their gazes held, her eyes unwavering. Lucien stood there, feeling emotions he refused to name or identify. And then her shoulders slumped, only to be pulled erect an instant later.

  “That is what I came here to tell you,” she said softly. “And also, I think, to say good-bye.” She took a deep breath, her hands unclenching then clenching again. She closed the distance between them, lifting herself on tiptoe and pecking his cheek. Her lips were wet. Yet warm.

  “Good-bye, Lucien,” she said as she drew back, her sweet breath wafting toward him. Her hand lifted as she patted smooth the jacket she’d clutched. “I wish you Godspeed on your journey.” She swallowed, another tear fell. “I hope you find peace wherever that journey might end.”

  She turned then, the bottom of her cloak flaring so that it lightly touched his legs. The turnkey must have been waiting right outside the cell, for the door opened. She was halfway through it before he heard himself call out, “Elizabeth?”

  He thought she might ignore him, saw her take another step as if she would. But then she stopped, slowly turning to face him.

  “Will you weep for me, too?”

  He didn’t know why he asked the question. Silly thing to ask.

  He watched her grapple with her answer before saying hoarsely, “Yes,” and the word was hardly more than a croak. “God help me. I will. I will cry at the unfairness of it all. I shall cry for the people who love you, but most of all, I shall cry for you and the life we might have shared together … if you’d but had the courage to fight.”

  She turned again. He heard the door clang close, her words hitting him in a way he’d never thought possible.

  If you’d but had the courage to fight.

  Only when it’d grown quiet again—well, as quiet as Newgate could get—did he move, and then only to collapse against the side of the wall.

  She would cry for him.

  Lucien didn’t know why, but the words hit him hard. Why would she cry? It wasn’t as if she loved him.

  Did she?

  Something burned within him. Something that he refused to let escape.

  You gave up, she’d said.

  No, he hadn’t, he reassured himself. He’d done his best.

  He stood up abruptly, refusing to dwell on the matter. What was done was done. She was gone. It was over.

  I’ll cry for you.

  His fist balled. Something coiled within him.

  “Stupid bastard.”

  He thought he’d imagined the words. Thought it was his subconscious speaking.

  But it wasn’t. It was John.

  His old friend stood on the other side of the door, and Lucien could see his eyes glow with unholy rage.

  “Do ya ken what you’ve done to her?”

  Lucien didn’t answer.

  “Do ya ken what you’ve put her through?” John’s voice was a physical lash, his rage stinging Lucien, the Scottish brogue more pronounced as it always was when emotionally charged. “She begged people she hardly knew fer money fer you. I watched her go out day after day, only to cume back beaten. And fer what?” John asked. “For you to turn your nose up at her.”

  “Hello, John,” Lucien said woodenly. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “Don’tcha give me that, ya bastard. If I trusted meself not to beat you to a pulp, I’d come in there and knock some sense inta you. She’s crying ’er eyes out down there. Crying in a hired hack because she sold everything she had ta help you. Or did you not notice her wedding ring gone?”

  No, he hadn’t noticed.

  “But never you fear. I’ll be only too happy to put another ring on her finger once you’re gone. She’ll deserve some happiness after this. Lord knows, you’ve only given ’er heartbreak.”

  “Don’t you dare.” The growl that emerged from Lucien’s lips surprised even him.

  “Don’t I dare do what, Lucien? Marry meself a wife you’ve all but given away? Too late. I’m already ’alf in love with her, or hadn’t you noticed that, too?”

  “You? In love? I hardly think so.”

  “Don’t ya be judging me by your own idiotic behavior.”

  “Speak English, man.”

  “Go ta hell, Lucien. But then, that’s where you be wantin’ ta go anyway, ach?”

  “You act as if I could have fought the charges.”

  “You could’a,” John snapped. “And you know it. At the very lea
st, you could’a tried to get the charges reduced ta manslaughter. That, at least, does no carry the penalty o’ death. But, no, you let yourself hang outta some twisted sense of obligation. Well, think you again. Lucien. Henry be dead. An’ nothing you do will bring him back. Not even sacrificing yur own life.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did,” John snarled, but then his eyes narrowed. “But I will no complain because it means I shall have ’er.” He leaned toward the door. “So ’ave fun at yur hanging, Lucien. Elizabeth and I will no be attending. I’m going ta take her away from the mobs that’ve been houndin’ her, take her away from memories of you because, despite what she may have told you, she’s in luv wi’ you, though God knows why.”

  In love with him?

  Not bloody likely.

  “Good-bye, old friend. ’Ave fun at your bloody hangin’.”

  “John,” Lucien called, but his friend ignored him.

  Lucien went to the bars. “John,” he called again. But there was no one there.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rain spilled chilly tears down the room’s single window, not that Elizabeth cared. There was no fire in the room John’s cousin had been kind enough to let her use, but who needed to be warm when one knew one would never be warm again? Elizabeth clutched an off-white shawl around her, knuckles blanching as she fought to maintain control.

  “Elizabeth, if there’s anythin’ I can do—”

  She stayed his words with her hand, her body beginning to shake uncontrollably. She clenched her hands to stop the shaking. “No, John, I will be fine.”

  She took a deep breath, knowing if he didn’t leave the room soon, he would be witness to a horrible display of tears. Again. But at least she hadn’t broken down completely in front of Lucien. Lord knew she’d wanted to crumple in a heap on the cell’s floor.

  “Please,” she said softly, her voice near a groan. “I would like to be alone now.”

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, nearly shattered at the touch of it, but somehow she held on.

  “I’ll be belowstairs if you need me.”

  She didn’t trust herself to say anything, merely nodded. He kept his hand on her shoulder for a second longer. She felt her control slip even more, never having felt more alone, more terrified in all her life.

  And then he pulled his hand away. She took a deep breath, one that caught in her throat. The door clicked open, then just as quietly, closed.

  And yet she didn’t break down. It was odd, for she could feel the sobs inside, but they didn’t come. She walked forward, placed her hand against the glass, the tips of her fingers turning white as she remembered a time when she’d looked out her own bedroom window and seen Lucien’s carriage. How long ago had that been? It seemed a lifetime ago.

  I want to cry, she told herself as only a single tear dribbled out. Cry at the injustice of it all.

  She felt her stomach lurch. Willed the tears to follow the sick feeling that coursed through her.

  Her eyes caught on a woman who walked down the street, a woman who suddenly reminded Elizabeth of her aunt.

  Promise me you won’t marry one of them.

  But she had married one of them. She’d done exactly as her aunt had warned her not to do, and look where it had landed her.

  And suddenly the dam burst, the tears she’d craved to shed erupting into a flood of sobs that robbed her of breath, that made her drop to the floor. She cried for her aunt, who had died a bitter and broken woman. She cried for herself, but most of all, she cried for him.

  Damn him, she sobbed. Damn him for doing this to me.

  She stood, her legs all but collapsing beneath her weight, but with an inhaled breath she wobbled on her feet. The dueling pistols caught her attention. Rage such as she’d never felt rose within her then. Her legs carried her to the chest of drawers. All of her anger centered on that box, her hand a near blur as she flung them to the floor. But when it struck with a clatter, she felt no better. And that drained the anger from her as quickly as it’d come. She dropped to her knees again, sobbing.

  How long she lay there, Elizabeth had no idea. She heard John knock once, had just enough strength to call out to him that she would be fine even as she knew nothing would ever be “fine” again.

  Her eyes burning from spent tears, she picked herself up off the floor. The pistols still lay on the floor, the two of them at odd angles. She needed to put them away before John saw them, or worse, the staff. Wouldn’t do for rumors to surface that the duchess of Ravenwood had tried to do away with herself. That would be the next headline.

  She reached for one just as the sun broke free.

  Odd how such a simple thing could change the course of someone’s life.

  For as the sun hit the barrel, it flashed. Elizabeth saw it glint. She picked the pistol up, examining it, wondering what it was about the firearm that caught her notice. She moved to pick up the other one.

  But something … something made her drop the second pistol, then hold up the first pistol again. She studied it for a second, a frown wrinkling her brow, turning it this way and that. A part of her thought she must be mad, for what could she find that the Attorney General hadn’t found? Still, she tilted the barrel. Sunlight arced around the inside of it. She leaned closer, her eyes straining.

  And that was when it hit her.

  No powder stains.

  She drew back, her heart racing.

  There were no powder stains and no remains of lead shot streaking the inside of the barrel.

  Be calm, Elizabeth, perhaps the other pistol was the one Lucien fired? But, no, they had both been fired, or so the witnesses had reported. But just to be certain, she checked the other pistol. Clean too.

  By now her hands had begun to shake with a different kind of emotion. Very well, she conjectured, perhaps Chalmers had cleaned the barrels. But why would he not clean the firing pins, too, for they were still dirty? And even if they had been cleaned, would not the passage of a lead ball make some mark upon the barrel?

  She all but threw both pistols back in the box, slamming the lid closed before shoving herself to her feet and racing downstairs.

  “Elizabeth,” John called just as she reached the front door.

  She spun in the narrow, dark hall. John had emerged from one of the home’s small antechambers.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She shifted on her feet, wanting only to be off. “To see Lord Chalmers.”

  “I didn’t clean them before putting them away.”

  Elizabeth reached out and clutched Chalmers’s hand. “Are you certain Lucien did not?”

  They were in Chalmers’s elegant and ornately furnished parlor, its pretty yellow-and-white wall coverings and fresh-cut roses bespeaking a woman’s touch.

  “No.” Chalmers instantly shook his head, firelight catching on the rim of his spectacles. “He didn’t want a thing to do with them. Told me to dispose of them for all he cared. I didn’t. Instead, as you know, I put them away. Where they remained at the family estate, until fetched for the trial.”

  “Thank you,” she said squeezing his hand once again.

  He shook his head. “All this time. All these years, I believed they’d been fired.”

  “As did everyone, Lord Chalmers,” Elizabeth reassured him. “And why wouldn’t they? There are powder stains around the firing pin.”

  “But then who took the lead shot out of them before the duel?”

  “One of the duelists,” she answered.

  “Henry?” Chalmers shot, his brows lifted.

  “Aye,” she said. “For something has bothered me. Lucien told me how Henry had struggled to tell him something before he died. He’d said the word ‘empty.’ ”

  “Aye,” Chalmers said. “I remember.”

  “Lucien took it to mean that was how Henry felt. But I think he was trying to tell him something else. I believe he was trying to tell Lucien that the chamber was empty.”

  Chalmers i
nstantly looked thunderstruck.

  She leaned forward. “Now I need you to think, Lord Chalmers. Was there a time, no matter how brief, when Henry could have had access to the pistols?”

  Chalmers’ eyes grew unfocused as he leaned back. “There was,” he said, his body suddenly tensing. “When Greshe and I were trying to talk Lucien out of the duel. The pistols were in the carriage, Henry standing by it. He could have easily pulled the balls from the chambers.”

  “But he didn’t empty the powder,” Beth surmised.

  “Do you know how hard it is to remove packed powder?” Chalmers asked. “It would have taken more than the time he had.”

  She leaned back, relief making her limbs weak. But just as quickly, she rose.

  Chalmers looked up as she did so, his eyes wide. “He is innocent.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “As I have always known.”

  “Someone else must have shot Henry.”

  “Yes, and I believe Lucien confused that shot with Henry firing upon him.”

  “But then would not Henry’s pistol be unfired?”

  “Yes, but if, as I suspect, I know who the murderer is, it would have been easy for her to have fired the pistol at a later date, to cover her actions, little realizing that the pistol wasn’t loaded. I doubt, after all, that she checked the chamber.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, the countess of Selborn.”

  Chalmers’s eyes went wide.

  “Now, one last question. Did anyone check the pistols to ensure they’d been fired after Henry was wounded?”

  Chalmers drew himself up. “Of course not, we were concerned with helping Henry.”

  “Thank you, Lord Chalmers.”

  “Where are you going?” Chalmers asked as she stood up.

  “To a gunsmith.”

  But she had to hurry, and she went alone, despite Chalmers’s protestations. John had protested, too, but this she needed to do by herself. If she was wrong … well, she didn’t want any witnesses to her disappointment.

  The ride to Milburn’s was short, the shop located near the heart of London. She had gotten the name from John, but only as the hack pulled to a stop before its glass facade did she think the shop might be closed. Her palms began to sweat as she disembarked, the pistol case clutched to her chest. She sank a good three inches into mud as she stepped down, puddles and refuse clogging the gutters, if one could call them that. But Elizabeth would have stepped through the gates of hell to gain her objective and so she hardly noticed as she slogged her way to the front door, pulling open the oak door as she carried the box under her arm. The acrid smell of gunpowder and iron filled her nose. A cat meowed at her feet. The feline’s owner, a man with as little hair as he had size, looked at her through wire-rim glasses. He stood behind a wooden counter, pistols hanging on the wall behind him. Hundreds of them, each a different shape and size. Some were ornate, others merely serviceable.