Although her plan worked well—without any hitches at all, in fact—it was after midday when Lauren found herself on the first leg of her journey. The pace was rapid, however. The driver, anticipating a heavy reward for reaching Liverpool in record time, set the horses to a steady gallop. At one point, they even passed the speeding Mail.
The journey was grueling. Dust swirled so thickly inside the carriage that Lauren was forced to hold a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, and as the vehicle bucked and swayed, she had to grasp the strap to keep from being thrown to the floor. Yet she made no complaints. The need for speed was far more important than any momentary discomfort she might be suffering. Even now, she knew quite well, Jason might be searching for her.
As she drew farther and farther away from the metropolis, Lauren couldn't help wondering what he was thinking. Had he discovered her absence already? Would he be fooled by the note that said she meant to spend the afternoon at the dressmaker's? There was no question in her mind that he would try to find her. And so she urged the greatest possible haste. She fretted each time she was forced to break her journey, chafing even at the necessity of changing the tired horses for fresh ones.
By the time dusk settled, though, Lauren was half convinced she had succeeded in disguising her destination. At least there was no one immediately upon her trail. When the driver halted to light the carriage lamps, Lauren bit back her impatience and nodded when she was told the pace would be slower. It was far too dark to continue at the same clipping rate. Such speed would be reckless and foolhardy, if not actually dangerous. Still, she found it hard to relax.
A few hours later, she was given real cause for worry, for the coach suddenly gave a tremendous jolt, then lurched along the ground for several hundred yards, before coming to rest at a precarious angle.
Lauren had been thrown to one side, shaken but unhurt. Realizing they had lost a wheel, though, she couldn't prevent a groan of dismay. A broken wheel would take hours to repair, and even if a wheelwright could be located, it was possible that he would refuse to work in the dark. Lauren found herself wearily tramping the nearly three miles to an inn they had passed, praying that Jason hadn't yet deduced where she was headed. Fortunately, the inn was uncrowded and could accommodate her, so she bespoke a private parlor where she could wait for the repairs to be completed.
Remembering her pregnancy, then, Lauren asked if she could be served some supper. When an obliging landlady brought her a bowl of soup and half a roasted fowl, Lauren forced herself to eat a few bites, even though her stomach was tied in knots. She felt somewhat relieved when her coachman delivered the welcome news that the wheel would be ready by first light.
Abjuring him to get some rest while he could, she called for the proprietress once more and requested a bedroom for the remainder of the night. Convinced, then, that she could do nothing to speed events along, Lauren stretched out on the bed and instantly fell into an exhausted sleep.
She was wakened by a servant at dawn. She almost wished she hadn't slept, though, for her head was pounding unmercifully and she felt extremely weak. Her flushed cheeks indicated that she had a touch of fever, as well, and the warm water she used to wash with did nothing to cool her hot brow. Afterward, she felt even worse when her usual nausea welled up.
Trying to ignore her queasiness, Lauren smoothed her crumpled gown and hid her tousled hair beneath a concealing bonnet. Her morning sickness precluded taking anything solid in her stomach, so she was ready to continue her journey in a very short time. Letting herself out of the room, she made her way down the dark hall.
She was descending the steep wooden staircase at the end of the corridor when she heard men's voices speaking in low conversation—one of which sounded elusively familiar. Remembering hearing the rattle of a coach in the yard as she was tying the strings of her bonnet, Lauren continued down the stairs more cautiously.
She halted abruptly as she caught sight of a pair of rough boots and worn canvas trousers. The man was coming toward her, heading straight for the stairs where she stood. When he came into view, Lauren's heart leapt to her throat. It wasn't Jason who had followed her. She was staring down at the wizened face of Ned Sikes!
For a moment Lauren found it impossible to move. Panicking then, she whirled, intent on fleeing up the stairs. She neglected to hold up her skirts, though, and her foot caught the hem of her gown. Before she could even put out a hand to break her fall, the stairs were rushing up to meet her.
Her stomach suffered the major impact of the blow, the force so great that all the air was driven fiercely from her body. She lay there, unable to breathe, feeling as if she were suffocating. The stars in her vision receded, then appeared again. She heard first a shout and then rapid footsteps on the stairs below her, but she couldn't move, not even to save herself.
Her arms were grasped then, none too gently, but she couldn't even fight. It was a struggle just to raise her hand to protect her face from the expected blow.
But it never came. No one hit her. She thought she must be dreaming when she heard Jason's voice angrily telling her to look at him. She opened her eyes . . . and looked directly into his blazing blue ones.
She stared at Jason in shocked confusion, her lips parting to say his name. Yet no sound came out. Then a cry was ripped from her throat as an agonizing pain knifed through her.
Doubling over, she clutched fiercely at her stomach. "No!" Lauren sobbed. The knifing pain in her midsection was unbearable, but even more unbearable was the thought of losing her child.
Jason lifted her in his arms and bellowed for the innkeeper to fetch a doctor.
"No," Lauren cried again. The last thing she remembered was the look of savage fury contorting Jason's handsome features as he carried her up the remaining stairs.
Chapter Twenty-five
Pain, sharp and cutting, then dull and throbbing, slowly, too slowly, receding. Heat. Sweltering, suffocating heat. Hands, cool and soothing. Hushed voices.
For three days Lauren lay in a pain-dazed stupor, her body so racked by fever that she was aware of almost nothing happening around her. Once she woke to find Jason bending over her, his gaze trained anxiously on her face as he held a cool cloth to her brow. By the light of the bedside candle, she could see his unkempt, unshaven appearance. He looked so utterly ragged and weary that Lauren wanted to reach up and touch him, to warn him to take better care of himself, but her throat was so parched that she could only manage to hoarsely whisper his name. Immediately he was holding a glass to her lips and forcing a bitter liquid between her teeth.
When next she woke, it was daylight. Lauren lay there, trying to remember where she was, before a slight noise made her turn her head. She frowned in confusion, wondering why Lady Agatha should be sitting beside her bed. The elderly woman was bent over a tambour frame, steadily plying a needle.
When Lady Agatha saw that her patient was awake, she put aside her sewing and leaned forward to feel of Lauren's forehead. "So, you decided to join the living," she said briskly. "I knew when your fever broke that it was just a matter of time. It was my own physician's remedy that did it. Country doctors, ha! How little they know. You'll be fine, my girl. Now drink this and see if you can sleep. Sleep is the best cure for the body, I always say. You'll be up and about in no time."
Suddenly an image returned to Lauren, of a kindly-looking man at her bedside. He was saying something to her, but she hadn't heard because of the pain. She remembered gripping Jason's hand, though, as another wave of agony made her cry out.
Yet a pain more savage raked her when she realized why her body still ached. "My . . . my baby," Lauren whispered hoarsely. She tried to sit up, but Agatha's firm hand prevented her from moving.
"You lost the child, my dear," Agatha said sympathetically. "But don't concern yourself unduly. I miscarried twice before my eldest was born and I went on to have half a dozen healthy children."
"No," Lauren rasped, yet she knew her protest was meaningless. She couldn't chang
e what had happened, couldn't bring back the tiny life that had been lost. The tears that flooded her eyes ran down her cheeks to splash unheeded on her pillow.
"That's it, my dear. Shed a few tears. You'll feel better afterward. Now drink this. . . ."
Again it was daylight when Lauren woke, but this time she found Molly bustling quietly about the room, humming to herself. The abigail had cleaned the small bedroom and simple furnishings until everything sparkled. There were also fresh flowers by the bed, and the windows had been thrown open to let in a soft summer breeze along with the afternoon sunlight.
When Molly greeted her with a gaiety that seemed a trifle forced, Lauren suspected that the girl's cheerfulness had been ordered by Lady Agatha as part of her "remedy". Lauren couldn't summon the energy to respond, though. Physically, she felt bruised and battered; emotionally, she felt devastated.
Fleetingly, she wondered if anyone had ever died from depression. She wanted Jason desperately, wanted him to hold her and comfort her, but she was afraid to ask for him. She was afraid to face Jason, afraid he wouldn't want to see her after what she had done. Besides, she didn't deserve to be comforted, she reflected miserably, riding a wave of remorse that was nine- tenths self-censure. Feeling wretched, Lauren closed her eyes and let Molly's bright chatter wash over her.
Yet as the abigail attended her, Lauren discovered answers to certain questions without asking. She was still at the same inn, she learned, for the doctor had said she couldn't be moved. Immediately after the accident, Jason had sent for his aunt and Molly, and they had been there for several days. Lauren herself had been in bed for nearly a week, and at one point, her fever had been so high that they had feared for her life.
Lauren felt a little better when she had been given a sponge bath and a fresh nightgown to wear. Molly offered her a frilly peignoir but she refused, for it seemed far too frivolous. Instead she drew on a thick woolen wrapper, while the abigail changed the bed linens and fluffed the pillows.
And as she crawled between the clean silk sheets that Lady Agatha had brought all the way from London, Lauren had to admit that she was grateful for such devoted care. Everyone was being so kind to her, so supportive. If only she could talk to Jason. If only he could forgive her. . . .
Molly left the room shortly afterward, promising to fetch some food from the kitchens. When she returned with it, Lauren made a halfhearted effort to rouse herself from her despondency. "Do you know anything about a man named Ned Sikes?" she asked as she was being spoon-fed a bowl of nourishing broth.
"Oh, m'lady, you would never guess! The Bow Street Runners were here. Such comings and goings. And him one, too, that Mr. Sikes. Who would have believed it to look at him? And a chief magistrate was here, too, asking to see you."
Shock penetrated Lauren's misery. Ned Sikes a member of that elite corps of thief-takers? An arbiter of the law asking to see her? Dear God, what was going on? Were they here to arrest her? Lauren pushed the bowl away, suddenly too faint to swallow.
"Are you finished with your soup, m'lady? His lordship asked to be informed when you were able to have visitors. The magistrate wants to speak to you."
Jason here at the inn? Yet he hadn't come to see her? Weakly Lauren shook her head. "No . . . please, Molly. Tell his lordship that I'm too ill to face anyone."
"Very well, m'lady," the maid replied with a curtsy. "If there's nothing you'll be needing then . . ."
Lauren turned away, feeling fresh tears sting her eyes. "No, nothing," she lied.
After the girl had left, the room was quiet for several minutes. Then Lauren heard a firm tread and a commanding knock on her door. When someone entered the room, Lauren knew without looking that it was Jason. Her heart hammered painfully as she turned her head so that she could see him.
With the sunlight behind him, it was hard to read his expression. There was nothing to indicate by his immaculate attire that he had spent several sleepless nights by her side while she was burning up with fever. Nor were there dark circles under his eyes or growth of beard on his chin any longer.
"Jason," Lauren whispered. "I . . . I'm sorry—"
"Now isn't the time to discuss it, Lauren," he interrupted, shocking her with his coldness. "There is someone below who has some questions to put to you. It is a matter of some importance. Sir John has been waiting several days to see you, so I'm afraid I must ask that you accommodate him. May I bring him up?" The question was asked briskly, as if he expected her agreement.
For a moment Lauren could only stare at Jason, bewildered by his distant, chillingly polite manner. She had expected anger and rage, yes, perhaps even bitterness, but not this coldness from a dispassionate stranger.
But as the silence stretched between them, Lauren's bewilderment turned to despair. She had indeed lost Jason. He couldn't forgive her for what had happened to their child—or for any of her crimes. By now he had to know she wasn't Andrea Carlin, that she had deceived him from the start. Lauren shut her eyes, feeling desolation sweep over her. She couldn't bring herself to speak, to say the words that desperately needed to be said.
But it seemed she was to be spared a confession anyway, for Jason turned abruptly on his heel and left the room. When he returned, he brought with him three men, one of whom was Ned Sikes. He introduced the other two as Sir John Marley, a magistrate from London, and Mr. Rorke of Bow Street.
Jason spoke more kindly to Lauren in their presence, calling her "my dear" and helping her to sit up, but she was certain his considerateness was an act. His ministrations were mechanical, his touch impersonal, and when she searched his face, trying to read his hooded expression, he wouldn't meet her gaze or even look at her.
Still, Jason was a familiar figure, and Lauren felt quite alone when he moved to one corner of the room. He stood among the shadows where he could observe the proceedings.
Mr. Rorke took over at once, apologizing for inconveniencing her, then saying in a brisk, official tone, "Now, milady, if you will kindly tell us what occurred during your meeting with one Regina Carlin. She was your aunt, I believe. Could you repeat, the conversation you had with her, word for word?"
Bewildered and somewhat frightened, Lauren looked first to the magistrate, then to Ned Sikes, and finally to Jason. "Are . . . am I to be arrested?" she asked, unable to subdue the quiver in her voice.
The officials seemed surprised by her question, but Jason stiffened, a brilliant flash of anger flaring in his eyes. He answered calmly enough, though. "No, my dear. These gentlemen are here to obtain evidence against your aunt Regina. Sikes was a witness to your meeting with her, but your testimony is needed as well. You must tell them what was said. The complete truth, Lauren."
There was a cold edge of irony to his tone, and although Lauren didn't understand why they should want her testimony, she knew she had to comply if she ever hoped to regain Jason's respect. She swallowed then in a shaking voice, repeated her conversation with Regina to the best of her recollection, revealing her aunt's confessions.
Out of her own mouth Regina had admitted to being Rafael's accomplice when he murdered Jonathan and Mary Carlin. She had also confessed to killing Sibyl Foster and trying to do away with Andrea Carlin so she could inherit the Carlin fortune. Mr. Rorke nodded solemnly as he listened, jotting down notes and occasionally interrupting with a question or two for clarification.
Lauren faltered when she came to the part where she had convinced her aunt to let her go rather than hold her for ransom. She stole a glance at Jason, then lowered her eyes once more. The grim set to his jaw, the tight line of his lips, told her more eloquently than words how thoroughly she had destroyed whatever love he had felt for her.
A numbing weariness engulfed Lauren as she completed her tale, and when she was done, she pulled the covers up to her chin and sank back among the pillows. Somehow she no longer cared what they did to her.
"You have our sincerest thanks, Lady Effing," the magistrate assured her, speaking for the first time. "Your story coincides
exactly with what Sikes has been telling us. What with the evidence we already have, that should be enough to convinct Regina Carlin for her crimes. You have been very courageous. I know what an ordeal this must have been for you—"
"Sir John," Jason interrupted. "My wife is extremely tired, as you can see, so if you are quite finished with your questions, perhaps you will allow her to rest."
"Of course," he replied at once, and with a deep bow to Lauren, took his leave, as did Rorke.
Ned Sikes, however, approached Lauren hesitantly, hat in hand, his head bowed humbly. His mumbled apology for causing her grief seemed as genuine as it was uncharacteristic, but his next words only confused her. "It were me that asked 'is lordship not to tell you 'oo I was," he confessed. "I thought you would act more natural-like if you didn't know it was a trap for Mistress Carlin. But . . . well, I'm fierce sorry."
Again Jason spoke. "Thank you, Ned. No one blames you."
"We should 'ha told 'er." When Jason said nothing, Sikes quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Lauren was puzzled by Sikes's apology, but more puzzled that Jason had stayed behind. She hadn't thought he would even speak to her. Indeed, he didn't seem to be finding any joy in her company, for he had moved over to the window and was standing with his back to her, his palms facedown on the sill as he stared down at the tiny garden below.
They might have been total strangers, so great was the gulf between them. Lauren felt she had to break the terrible silence. "What . . . what happens . . . now?"
There was a long pause before Jason replied. "Regina has been arrested and charged with murder. Based on your statement, I have no doubt she will be convicted."
"What did Sikes mean? What should you have told me?"
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