The maid held out a silver tray, and Lizzie read the card that was upon it. Mr. Frederick Hightower.
Lizzie started up from her chair, panic rising. She could not see him alone. She knew what he was capable of. She had to avoid that at all costs. “I cannot receive him without James or Lady Thornborough,” she said. “It would not be proper. Please inform the gentleman that there is no one at home.”
“Too late for that,” Freddie said from the doorway. “I took the impertinent liberty of showing myself up.” He gave a short, dignified bow, which Lizzie knew was primarily for the benefit of the maid. “I hope, Mrs. Somerville, that you will forgive my gross lack of manners. But it is imperative that I speak with you.”
From the moment he had first approached her at Lord Beauchamp’s ball, Freddie had always put an odd inflection on her name, and today was no different. And as before, it only added to her irritation. “I cannot imagine what urgent matters we would have to discuss.”
With a significant look at the maid, who was still befuddled by this breach of protocol, Freddie said, “It is a matter of great delicacy.”
“Very well,” she said. She had been playing the part of Ria for several months now. She could continue on for another hour or so, despite anything he might try. However, she would make sure they were not left alone. She addressed the maid. “Jane, will you bring up tea?”
It was too early for tea, but Lizzie needed the security of having the servants nearby. She would think of ways to keep them coming and going from the room as much as possible.
“Right away, madam.” Jane gave Lizzie a small curtsy and moved toward the door. Freddie handed her his hat and cane as she passed. She accepted these with another curtsy and left the room.
Freddie advanced several steps, but Lizzie knew she could not afford to have him too close. She quickly returned to her chair by the fireplace. She motioned to another chair, which was at least five feet away.
“I beg you will be seated, Mr. Hightower.” She pulled out her handkerchief and made a show of wiping her nose. “I am not well, which is why I asked Jane to state that I was not at home. I was not planning to receive guests today.”
Freddie sat down on the edge of the proffered chair, but his cold eyes held her intently. “You needn’t put on all those polite airs. I know you would be far more comfortable just telling me to state my business and then get the hell out.”
“Mr. Hightower!” It was not difficult to sound shocked and offended. “What language.”
He ignored her protestation. “I think, Lizzie, that it’s time we finally got things straight between us.”
Lizzie touched her handkerchief to her nose once more, primarily to buy a few moments of time. She could not, would not allow Freddie the slightest foothold. “I do not know why you persist in calling me by another woman’s name,” she said icily.
“Do you not?” His tone was mocking. “Let me clarify. As you are aware, from the first night I saw you at Lord Beauchamp’s ball, I was struck by your amazing resemblance to a woman I used to know.” A slow smile broadened his features. “A woman I used to know intimately.”
Lizzie sighed dramatically. “We have been over this before, and I am at my wit’s end. You have the word not only of myself, but of my nearest relations. Why can’t you accept it?”
He leaned back in his chair, as though relaxing for a long visit. “I just couldn’t seem to rid myself of doubts. I had to be sure, because this woman and her supposed brother—I have my doubts as to their exact relationship—nearly succeeded in killing me. Needless to say, this is not something a person can forget easily.”
Lizzie steeled her face to show nothing but disdain. “You are attempting to involve me in events that occurred while I was not even in the country.”
“James and Lady Thornborough may be willing to accept your story at face value,” he replied with a dismissive gesture. “Even that idiot Somerville. I suspect they do it to protect their precious family reputations. It is certainly easier than actually sending someone to verify whether the events occurred as you claim they did. But I saw no reason why I should not do so.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and made a show of reading its contents.
Lizzie stared at him, trying to discern whether Freddie was attempting to bluff the truth out of her. He had to be. She could see that Freddie was holding a piece of newspaper, not a letter. “You are wasting both your time and your money,” she said. “And in any case, you cannot possibly have heard back already. It takes three to four months just to get there.”
“Right you are,” Freddie agreed. “I was prepared to wait. How fortuitous, therefore, that I have uncovered some remarkable information in the meantime.”
He paused for dramatic effect. He always loved drama, Lizzie thought. She had to find a way to diffuse the situation. Jane should be returning soon with tea, which would provide an interruption and buy Lizzie some much-needed time. Lizzie strained her ears, hoping to hear the servant’s tread on the stairs. But she and Freddie were very much alone.
He waved the paper in his hands. “Last week I spotted a small but fascinating article in the Times about a shipwreck that occurred not too long ago off the Australian coast.”
Lizzie was stunned. She could not even open her mouth to speak.
Freddie kept talking, referring to the newspaper. “It’s an amazing tale, really. All were lost except a man and a racehorse. Both made it to a desolate piece of shoreline, where the aborigines kept them for weeks before they were able to struggle in to Melbourne. A great fire swept through the region during that time and devastated the countryside, which only added to their woes. At one point they’d taken refuge in the middle of a river to escape the flames.”
Lizzie had heard of the horrific wildfire that had destroyed vast tracks of land around Melbourne. It had happened a week or two before her departure. Her brother had gone through all of that! But she could not let on. It took everything within her to say in a disinterested tone, “I fail to see what that has to do with me.”
“That’s because I haven’t gotten to the best part,” Freddie said. “Here’s the line that got my attention: ‘The man was one Tom Poole of Bathurst.’ ” He indulged in a self-satisfied smile. “It appears that a journey to Australia may be soon in the cards for me.”
No! Lizzie wanted to shriek the word. Instead, she covered her face and coughed into her handkerchief. She would not, could not, let Freddie see her fear. “You may do as you like, Mr. Hightower,” she said acridly. “I should, in fact, be happy if you would take yourself off to Australia as soon as possible.”
He waved off her insult as if he were swatting away a pesky fly. “Did you know that the Times receives copies of all the Australia newspapers? Occasionally they pull information to reprint in the Times, like they did in this article. The rest they archive. I didn’t know that myself until I made the acquaintance of a man who works there. It was easy enough, for ready cash, to do a little research among those musty old newspapers, and I didn’t have to go back too far before I discovered that Ria—the real Ria—is dead.”
Lizzie stood up. “That is utter nonsense.” She spoke more loudly than she’d intended to, in a vain attempt to make her voice forceful and confident.
“Is it?” Freddie returned. “Not according to this particular death notice from the Bathurst Free Press. I copied it carefully, word for word: ‘Died. At Bathurst, on the thirtieth of December, aged twenty-seven years, Victoria, beloved wife of the late Mr. Edward Smythe, who was killed by bushrangers last summer. She is deeply lamented—’ ” He tossed down the paper and stood up. “I think you know the rest.”
Lizzie moved behind her chair and grasped the back of it, as though it might afford her some protection. Freddie rounded it easily, bringing him menacingly close. “I was wrong, you see, about one thing. Here I thought the precious Victoria Thornborough had gone about playing the harlot in Europe for a few years before making her escape to Australia
. Instead I discover she is dead and being impersonated by a common whore.”
“That’s enough!” Lizzie shouted. “How dare you insult me in my own house.”
She attempted to skirt the chair and move toward the door, but Freddie caught her by both arms. “Your house! You have no more right to be here than a stray dog.”
“Let me go!” She attempted to wrench free from his grasp.
His arms gripped her as tight as iron bands. “Be still!” he ordered. He brought his face very close to hers.
Lizzie could smell liquor. It lay upon him in multiple layers, a repulsive mixture of recent and stale odors. It was unbelievable to think she had ever loved him. How had she ever been so deceived?
He brought his lips to a spot just under her right ear. She thought at first that he was attempting to kiss her neck. She shrank back, expecting to feel the unwanted contact of his lips to her skin. But she felt only the warmth of his breath. “You always have that scent of rosewater, Lizzie. In your hair, especially.” His voice was deceptively soft. “I would know you anywhere. Even blindfolded.”
She was unable to move, frozen like a lion’s prey.
“Come on, girl,” he whispered gruffly. “How about a little taste of that thing you do so well.”
His lips came down on hers in a harsh, demanding kiss. She struggled, pushing against him. He laughed and held her tighter. “That’s a wench,” he said with approval. “I always loved your feistiness.”
He managed to kiss her again, despite her efforts to resist. She was repulsed by the taste of stale tobacco and the lingering scent of alcohol. Without warning he violently pushed her away from him. She stumbled backward at the unexpected freedom, toppling onto the floor. The shock of the fall took the breath out of her.
Freddie stood above her, looking down. “You managed to fool everyone else, but you could never fool me.” He reached down as though to help her up, but she scrambled away from him, silently cursing her tangle of heavy skirts.
Grabbing on to the arm of a chair, Lizzie managed to get to her feet. She shook out the folds of her dress. “You are no gentleman, sir.”
He shook his head. “I might accept such a chastisement from a proper lady.”
Lizzie eyed Freddie warily, expecting another attack. He merely stood looking at her with an insolent expression. “Fear not, my lady. You may go on with your little charade for as long as you like. I will tell no one.”
Despite his casual tone, he was clearly tensed for another pounce. Lizzie saw with alarm that he had placed himself between her and the door.
“Why would you stay silent if—if you believe I am not Ria?”
“Still hedging, are we? No matter.” He straightened his coat and collar. “When you think it through, it really does no harm. James is still the heir to Rosewood. If ‘Ria’ is alive, it takes nothing from James except a little spending money, which the fellow will only lose gambling anyway. And the old lady can still have someone to call her granddaughter. She might as well die happy.”
“Then why are you here?”
He laughed. “With your usual straightforwardness, you come right to the point.” He let his gaze fall over her, studying her with a particular gleam in his eye. “I have missed you, Lizzie. Missed your feminine charms. I knew you would be grateful to me for not exposing you.”
The suggestion behind his words was clear, and Lizzie went cold. She could actually have sworn the temperature of the room had dropped. “You expect me to make some sort of confession, and then give myself to you? I must condemn you to disappointment.”
“Afraid of ruining your reputation?” he said derisively. “Don’t worry, there is a way around that problem, too. You will have to marry me.”
“That,” she said with venom, “will never happen.”
He took a menacing step toward her. “You will categorically deny that you are Lizzie Poole? In spite of the clear evidence I can lay out against you? Would you prefer to go to prison, then? Or perhaps they’d throw you in Bedlam for being out of your wits.” With a humorless grin he added, “Or perhaps they’d transport you to Australia so you can join your brother in chains.”
She drew herself up to her full height. She would bluster her way out of this, no matter what. She strode purposefully toward the door. “Let me go, Freddie,” she said between clenched teeth. “Or I shall scream bloody murder and you will be exposed for the villain you are.”
He reached for her as she passed, but she shoved him with surprising force, throwing him against the doorjamb. By the time he regained his balance, she had reached the head of the stairs. For a moment she thought her bravado had worked. But he caught up to her and grabbed her from behind, placing his hands with greedy familiarity around her waist. “If you do not come back into that study right now,” he threatened softly, “it is you who will be exposed.”
Lizzie did not budge. They stood there together, locked in mutual defiance and fury.
“Let her go, Hightower.” A cool, authoritative voice came up the stairs.
Lizzie had never heard a more welcome sound.
But Freddie’s grip on Lizzie did not slacken. “This is not your affair, Somerville.”
“I beg to differ.”
Lizzie saw Jane now. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up stupidly, unable to move. Geoffrey’s hat and gloves were still in her hands. She must have been in the process of receiving him when Lizzie and Freddie had burst out of the study.
Geoffrey began to make his way up the stairs. “I said, let her go.”
“Oh, yes, my lord,” Freddie replied with facetious deference. He made a pretense of stepping back, but as Geoffrey reached the landing, he pushed Lizzie to the wall, wheeled around, and hit Geoffrey hard in the jaw.
The force of the unexpected blow sent Geoffrey backward. He lost his footing and tumbled down a half-dozen steps before managing to grab the railing. He took a quick gulp of air and then raced back up the stairs with a burst of speed that caught Freddie unprepared. In an instant the two men were locked in battle.
Lizzie was trapped against the wall as the two men fought before her on the landing, giving and receiving fierce punches, rolling dangerously close to the stairs.
“Jane!” Lizzie cried. “Get help!”
But the maid stared dumbfounded at the fighting men, unable to process Lizzie’s words into coherent thought or action.
“Get help!” Lizzie repeated. “Find the footman!”
Her words finally got through. Jane thrust Geoffrey’s hat and gloves onto a table and hurried out of the hall.
Freddie gained the upper hand. He managed a wicked blow to Geoffrey’s gut and began to punch repeatedly at his bloodied face. Lizzie threw herself at Freddie, grabbing for his right arm in a frantic attempt to stop the terrible blows.
Freddie was no better than an animal now. He left off beating Geoffrey just long enough to grab Lizzie by the front of her dress, picking her up and tossing her away as though she weighed nothing at all.
She crashed hard into a large, ornate mirror, which shattered with an appalling noise. She collapsed in a stream of broken glass, her head slamming hard against the wooden floor.
She lay, stunned, unable to move, as though some unseen force were pinning her to the floor. She still had her hearing, though, and could register the multitude of sounds around her: the scuffling of the two men fighting, shouted curses, a groan as a punch found its mark. The voices of James and other men she could not identify soon rose up from the entryway and added to the confusion. And then, in a moment, everything went silent, and Lizzie thought she had lost her hearing, too.
Until she heard the sickening thud of a body hitting the floor somewhere below.
Chapter 38
For the second time, Lizzie thought how odd it was to be waking up in a strange room, her body aching, with no memory of how she had gotten here. Through half-open eyes she saw sunlight slanting through heavy curtains in a manner eerily reminiscent of the d
ay she had found herself in Ria’s old room in London.
Slowly Lizzie realized her surroundings were not so unfamiliar after all. This was the room she had occupied since coming to Rosewood. The feather bed held her in a gentle embrace like an old friend. She lay still, unwilling to move, savoring the comfort it offered to her sore body. But then a vibrant memory cleared the mist from her brain: the terrible fight between Geoffrey and Freddie.
Lizzie struggled to sit up, crying out involuntarily as her head complained in protest. She caught sight of Martha on the far side of the room. “Where is he?” she exclaimed, her throat dry with panic. “Where is Geoffrey?”
Martha hastened to her. “Don’t fret yourself, miss. Lord Somerville is not here, but he is well. He and Lady Thornborough have gone to London.”
Geoffrey was well. Lizzie thought her heart might burst with joy. But she knew she had heard something—or someone—fall from that landing. Hesitantly she asked, “What has happened to Mr. Hightower?”
Martha’s grim face displayed the answer, even before she said, “Mr. Hightower is dead, miss.”
A strange mixture of relief and anguish flooded Lizzie’s soul. She was free from Freddie, and from the torment of what he might do to her or Tom. But at what price? A terrible thought presented itself to her—what if Geoffrey was held responsible for Freddie’s death? What if he was in London because the police had arrested him for murder? “It was an accident, Martha!” Lizzie cried, as though Martha were both judge and magistrate. “Lord Somerville never intended—he would never—”
Martha patted her hand. “There, there, Miss Lizzie, don’t fret. No one has accused Lord Somerville of any wrongdoing. It was clear he was only trying to protect you.”
Miss Lizzie. Martha’s use of her real name rang loudly in Lizzie’s ears. She said tentatively, “Did Lord Somerville tell you who I am?”
An Heiress at Heart Page 29
