The one link he’d never thought to hide, and someone had thought to search for it.
He’d sat staring across the room as minutes ticked by and the realization that he was facing absolute and utter ruin solidified in his mind. The instant his name cropped up, his reputation as a major investor in the railways would be seen for the connection it was—and once they had his name…it wouldn’t be easy but eventually they’d find evidence enough to hang him.
He’d considered the prospect for a full minute, then had shrugged and refocused on his plan to deal with the current situation. In light of that, ruination was immaterial.
He wrote steadily for some time.
Then Jennings stirred; laying aside his pen, Malcolm rose and rounded the desk. Grasping Jennings’s arm, he hauled him upright. “Walk.” He’d left just enough play in the ropes about Jennings’s ankles for him to shuffle along.
Groggy and dazed, Jennings tried to resist, but Malcolm propelled him out of the library, along the corridor, and into the kitchen. The wooden cellar door stood open, propped wide. Seeing it, Jennings panicked and fought to resist, but with Malcolm—taller, heavier, and, as Jennings was discovering, a good deal stronger—behind him, he couldn’t gain sufficient purchase on the slate floor to even slow the approach of the yawning blackness.
Malcolm paused just before the threshold and murmured, “If you stop struggling and descend the stairs yourself, I won’t have to hurl you down them.”
Jennings hesitated, still tense but unable to do anything to save himself, then the fight went out of him. He nodded and carefully edged his foot forward.
Malcolm grabbed the lantern he’d left waiting, already lit, and followed, one hand wrapped about one of Jennings’s arms more to steady the man as he lurched down the stairs than to restrain him.
He was already well and truly restrained.
Once in the cellar, Malcolm pointed Jennings toward a stool set against a supporting column. Jennings shuffled over and collapsed onto the stool; before he knew what was happening, Malcolm looped another rope around his chest and tied it off on the other side of the rough-hewn column.
Returning to where Jennings could see him, he considered the man, then turned for the stairs.
“Hmm?”
Glancing back, raising the lantern, Malcolm met Jennings’s eyes. “Why?”
When Jennings nodded, he hesitated, then said, “Because unexpectedly—and extremely belatedly—I appear to have developed a conscience.” He paused, then, brows rising, amended, “Or perhaps I finally realized I possessed one, and why—realized what I was supposed to do with it.”
His lips twisted wryly. “You want to know what I’m going to do?” Jennings nodded. “I suppose, given we’ve been playing these games, you and I, for nearly seventeen years, I owe you that much.”
Briefly, Malcolm outlined his plan. “While I’m perfectly prepared to bear full responsibility for all I’ve done, I will not accept responsibility for your actions. While the ideas were mine, all the active decisions were yours. You’ve not at any time over the last fifteen and more years been operating under my direct orders—I long ago left you to your own devices, your own initiative.”
He paused, then said, “Do you remember Mrs. Edith Balmain?”
He waited until a spark of recognition lit Jennings’s dulled eyes. “Yes, that’s right—back at the very beginning, our scheme with Lowther. On Lowther’s demise, Mrs. Balmain was kind enough to give me some advice—she warned me to keep my thoughts, my schemes, to myself.” He studied Jennings, then murmured, “Would, for both our sakes, that I’d listened.”
He lowered the lantern; in the dimness he looked at Jennings one last time. “They’ll come for you tomorrow, before evening I’d imagine. I’d advise you to throw yourself on the court’s mercy.”
Turning, Malcolm made his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. A series of mumbles had him glancing back. “What about me?”
Jennings nodded emphatically.
Malcolm smiled, perfectly sincerely. “By the time they come for me, I’ll be gone.”
20
With Sarah, Barnaby, and Gabriel, Charlie headed south at little more than an ambling walk. Gabriel was the freshest; he held his mount back beside Barnaby’s and kept a careful eye on the rest of them as they let their mounts carry them home.
When they reached the Park’s stable, Croker and one of his lads were waiting to take the horses and let them stumble up to the house. The startled looks on the men’s faces confirmed just how filthy and bedraggled they were.
Gabriel remained mounted. He paced alongside them as they slowly made their way out of the stable yard.
Sarah looked up at him. “It’s so late—dawn can’t be that far off. Won’t you stay the night here? It’s miles to Casleigh.”
Gabriel smiled and shook his head. “It may be late, but Alathea won’t sleep until I return and report that all is well—or as well as can be expected.”
Beside Sarah, Charlie snorted. “Meaning you promised her you would in order to get her to leave in the carriage with the children.”
Gabriel chuckled. “Your understanding of the married state is clearly improving.”
Charlie humphed; he, Sarah, and Barnaby halted in the drive and waved Gabriel off. Atop his huge hunter, his dark figure was quickly swallowed up by the shadows as he headed farther south. Lowering their arms, the three of them walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, across the lawn to the side door.
Crisp and Figgs were waiting to receive them—with warmth, reassurances, and glasses of spiced wine that Figgs insisted they drink. Unable to summon strength enough to argue, they meekly did as they were told while Figgs and Crisp, both plainly struggling to subdue the urge to comment and fuss over their appalling state, reported on the arrangements made in their absence.
“We’ve put the babes in the old schoolroom,” Figgs said. “Miss Quince and Mrs. Carter are in the rooms off it, and we’ve accommodated Mr. Kennett in the main servants’ wing. They’re all settled in, poor dears—quite exhausted they were—and one of the maids is keeping watch over the babes for the rest of the night.”
Draining his glass of wine, Barnaby returned it to Crisp’s tray. He nodded to Charlie and Sarah. “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow. We’ll have to think what’s the best way forward.”
Crisp assured Barnaby that hot water would be dispatched immediately to his room and sent a hovering footman to attend to it.
“Now my lord, my lady.” Crisp turned back to Sarah and Charlie. “A hot bath is being prepared in your chambers as we speak. If there’s anything further you need, any assistance—”
“Thank you, Crisp, Figgs.” Sarah summoned strength enough to take charge; she had a strong suspicion that if she didn’t, she and Charlie would be treated as the children both Crisp and Figgs still remembered them as. “Your arrangements have been exemplary—we knew we could count on you. His lordship and I will manage admirably.”
She took the empty glass from Charlie’s slack fingers and replaced it with hers on Crisp’s tray. “Now—is Gwen waiting for me?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Crisp replied. “She’s supervising the filling of your bath.”
“In that case, I believe his lordship and I have all we require.” She linked her arm with Charlie’s; he’d been careful to keep his back away from Crisp and Figgs throughout. “We’ll see you in the morning—breakfast at ten, please.”
“Indeed, ma’am.” Crisp bowed. Figgs bobbed a curtsy.
“Thank you both,” Charlie said, nodding in dismissal.
He yielded to Sarah’s push on his arm and turned with her, moving toward the main staircase and their apartments beyond.
Horrified gasps erupted from behind them.
“My lord! Your coat—” came from Crisp
“You’ve been burned!” Figgs all but shrieked.
With a small resigned sigh, Sarah halted and turned back—stopping Figgs’s and Crisp’s instincti
ve rush toward them. “It’s not as bad as it appears. Doctor Caliburn took a look at it and gave me some salve.” She flourished a pot she’d pulled from her pocket. “He instructed me in what to do. Now if you please, we really should retire so I can tend his lordship’s wounds.”
Watching the performance over his shoulder, Charlie capped it with a distant nod, then faced forward again and, arm in arm with Sarah, continued on.
When they were on the stairs and out of earshot, he leaned closer and murmured, “I had wondered how on earth we would manage to get free—in terms of fussing, Crisp and Figgs have always been able to give Serena and even Alathea lessons.” He glanced down at her face. “Thank you for saving me.”
Sarah humphed. “As your injuries were sustained while you were saving me, it seemed only fair.”
Charlie chuckled weakly. “But I had to save you because you’d already saved me, remember?”
“But you were on the ground needing to be saved only because you’d climbed into the attic to save the babies and Quince.” They’d reached the doors to their apartments. Sarah paused and looked into his face; smiling softly, she raised a hand to his cheek. “Each of us did our part in saving something to night, but you most of all.” Stretching up, she touched her lips to his. “Thank you.”
He looked down into her eyes and returned her gentle smile. “It was…” He hesitated, then said, “Both my duty and my plea sure.”
He opened the door and they went in, crossed the foyer and entered their bedchamber.
Sarah went straight to the adjoining bathing chamber, checked that they had all they might require, then dismissed Gwen, sending her to her bed.
Then she returned to the bedchamber, where Charlie was twisting in front of the cheval glass, trying to see his back. “Come in here—no, don’t try to take your coat off yet.”
She bullied him into the bathing room and made him sit on a stool close by a sideboard with a basin atop it. A sponge lay in the warm water in the basin; she squeezed it out, then applied it to the burned areas on his back.
Pressing gently, she dampened each burned spot, then moved to the next. Charlie sat still, slumped, feeling tiredness drag at his limbs. “Did Caliburn examine my wound?”
“He looked at it when I asked him to—you wouldn’t have noticed. He didn’t need to examine it closely—he’d seen what had happened. Your coat’s burned through and your waistcoat as well, but while the shirt got burned—it’s turned brown and flaked away—the skin beneath is scorched rather than burned.”
“Because you got that log off my back so quickly.”
“Hmm.”
He got the impression she was concentrating, that he wasn’t supposed to distract her with talk; perhaps, as Gabriel had said, his understanding of the married state was improving.
His lips quirked, then lifted. His wandering mind registered that after all that had passed during the long night, to be able to smile—easily, with a gentle happiness that warmed his heart—was a singular blessing.
Another gift he owed to her.
She finished her dampening, then urged him to his feet and helped him ease coat and waistcoat off together. He took his coat and held it up to inspect the damage, then she filched it from his fingers and dropped it on the floor.
“Shirt next.” She helped him with the buttons, but stopped him before he could try to shrug it off, making him wait while she dampened the burned areas again before he did.
Standing behind him, she helped, eventually drawing the shirt down his arms and away; before he could turn, she sent it to join his coat and prodded lightly on the back of his shoulders. “The bath next—that’s what Doctor Caliburn ordered. Then I have to smooth the salve on.”
He had no real argument with the doctor’s orders, only with the manner in which she believed they should be followed. He dutifully sat and pulled off his boots, letting her help, then stood again and stripped off his breeches.
She’d flitted away to test the bathwater; he waited until she returned and seized his arm to tow him to the tub—then he seized her. Deaf to her protests, he bundled her out of her stained and bedraggled gown, dispensed with her petticoats and chemise, sending all to join the growing pile, then he scooped her up in his arms—spent half a second glorying in the sensation of her silken skin against his, her curvaceous weight held against him—then he climbed into the bath and carefully sat, settling her before him.
She humphed, then wriggled around. Grabbing the sponge from the lip where she’d left it, she plunged it into the water, then with determination in her face and a warning in her eyes, set it to his skin and proceeded to wash the soot and grime from his arms and chest.
Lips curving, he leaned back—neck on the lip to prevent his shoulders from touching the tub—and let her. He watched her face while she did; a strange, soothing calm descended and enveloped them.
Held them when he reached out and took the sponge from her, and set to work sponging her ivory limbs. They took turns, cleaning, soothing, caring, washing each other’s hair, until they were both clean.
He stood and reached for the waiting pails, rinsing her off, then using the last on himself. Towels left warming before the fire soon had them dry, then, arms looped about each other’s waist, they propped each other up as far as the bed.
Tiredness was dragging at them both, but Sarah poked and fussed until he sat up and let her tend his scorched skin. Drawing his knees up, he slumped over them so she could reach more easily.
Her fingers lightly brushed, then soothingly spread the cool cream over the heated spots on his shoulders and back.
He closed his eyes and savored her touch; if he’d been a cat he would have purred.
Sometime during her ministrations, he fell asleep.
He woke to find himself slumped on his stomach, with the covers propped across a bolster on one side and Sarah on the other, so the covers wouldn’t weigh on his injuries.
She must have prodded and pulled to get him arranged as he was; the thought—the image it conjured—made him smile.
Eyes closed, one step away from sliding back into his earlier, deeply restful slumber—into a peace he’d never experienced before she’d lain by his side—he let his mind skate over the events of the night, and what waited for them tomorrow.
Despite the horrors of the blaze, a feeling of victory pervaded his recollections; they might have lost the orphanage building but they’d saved the orphanage—the children, the staff. And if anything the commitment to it, both from themselves and the local gentry as well as the surrounding community, had been strengthened through seeing the place threatened, and through its communal defense.
There was something very powerful about joining together to defeat a mutual foe who threatened an institution the community suddenly remembered had real value.
In the wake of the blaze, tomorrow would be filled to overflowing with organizing, coordinating, arranging, and deciding.
He imagined it, envisioned how busy he and Sarah would separately be—and while one part of his mind jibbed that they would have no time to spend together, alone, another part reminded him of the glory of togetherness they now shared. All it needed was a look, a touch, and that glory was there, whether they were in a crowded room or alone.
It was theirs, and now always would be. Embracing it—having the courage to embrace it—had made it forever his. Theirs.
There was, despite all, much to celebrate.
Including the fact that Sarah really was pregnant—he was sure of it. As he’d held her against him, her head slumped on his shoulder, and gently washed her stomach, he’d felt sure it was just a touch more rounded than it had been. He’d been tempted—so tempted—to tell her then and there how much he loved her. It had hardly seemed any great thing, not when their love, his and hers, had been wrapped all around them, an all but tangible force.
He hadn’t found any fancy words—none he deemed appropriate, none he could imagine saying with sincerity, and when he spoke he
wanted it clear that what ever words he said came from his heart.
But perhaps fancy words weren’t necessary.
He’d been about to speak, trusting to instinct and her understanding, but she’d raised a hand and delicately smothered a yawn—and he’d realized just how exhausted she, and indeed he, had been. The impulse to speak had faded; when he finally uttered the words, he wanted her to remember them, and not imagine later it was some dream.
But he would tell her soon.
She—and Alathea, Gabriel, and all the others—were right. A marriage based on love was worth fighting for.
Worth any sacrifice he might ever have to make.
While the rest of the world slept and night softly faded with the oncoming dawn, Malcolm Sinclair sat at the desk in his library, quill flying across parchment. Page after page lay stacked by his elbow; he felt no hesitation in writing—no second thoughts.
Dawn was a glimmer on the horizon when he finally sighed, and straightened. With a flourish he signed at the bottom of the last page, then carefully sanded it. Gathering the sheets, he folded them, then lighting a candle, he melted some wax and carefully afixed his seal over the ends.
Then and only then did he pause, pen poised over the front of the packet. Then, lips curving, he fluidly wrote: “To Whom It May Concern.”
Done. He sat back and surveyed the packet; gradually, his gaze grew distant. A frown slowly formed on his austerely handsome face, but then he shook it aside and drew two fresh sheets to him.
The two notes took but a few minutes to pen. He signed and sealed them, then rising, propped the larger packet prominently on the desk. Turning out the lamp, he picked up the two notes, walked to the French doors, and drew aside the curtains. In the faint light he crossed to the small side table that stood beside the armchair before the fire.
The Taste of Innocence Page 39
