by Anne Gracie
Cecily continued, “And then talk started in the village that I was carrying Michael’s babe. Which was so dreadfully unfair—Michael is so kind and gentle and caring . . .”
And then Jane understood. “You were in love with him.”
Cecily nodded. “I knew it was wrong and a mortal sin—and a crime—but I did it. And for nearly twelve years we’ve been so happy. He’s a wonderful father to Winnie—he loves her and she adores him.” She gave Jane a piteous look. “He doesn’t know and I would rather die than tell him.”
“It’s Zachary—Adam—who will die if you stay in hiding.”
“What?” Cecily turned to her in shock. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know? He’s in prison, and likely to be hanged for murder—your murder!”
“My murder?”
Jane nodded. “He needs you to come to London and prove his innocence.” She frowned. “Why do you think those men came looking for you before?”
Cecily looked shamefaced. “I don’t really know. Mary warned me that a man had come on the Earl of Wainfleet’s business, and I panicked.” She bit her lip. “We told everyone he was a tax collector from England come after me, so everybody pretended they spoke no English, and he went away. When the second man came, we knew—or we thought we knew—what he wanted, so we did the same. He was cleverer than the first one, but he went away in the end, and I thought I was safe again.”
“Both those men were sent by Zachary, because he needed to prove he hadn’t murdered you and stolen your jewels.”
“And you have come because . . .”
“Because I love him. And because I know what it is to have to flee from evil men.”
“Not Zachary!” Cecily said, horrified.
Jane laughed. “No, not Zachary,” she said softly. “He’s a rescuer of women, not a bully.” She looked at Cecily. “So, Cecily, will you come with me to London and prove his innocence?”
Cecily hesitated, looking troubled, but just as Jane was about to threaten to drag her there—by force if necessary!—she nodded. “Yes, of course I’ll come. Michael is away at the moment. With any luck I can go to London and be back before his return.”
Jane wasn’t particularly impressed by Cecily’s priorities, but as long as she saved Zach from the hangman, she could keep her secrets.
They walked down to the village together in silence. Jane was preoccupied by the problem of how to transport herself, Cecily, Polly and William back to London. In her rush to get here, she hadn’t considered that. The post chaise could carry two, three at a squeeze, and besides, it had departed the morning after they’d arrived. One didn’t keep a post chaise waiting, not if one had limited means.
She would have to send William to the nearest large town to hire a vehicle.
They reached the main street of the village just in time to see a smart traveling chaise and four pull up outside the little village hostelry. A groom ran to take the horses. The driver, a tall gentleman in a dusty, elegantly cut, many-caped driving coat, buckskin breeches and dusty black boots, swung down and stalked toward them.
He was unshaven, weary and furious.
Cecily clutched Jane’s arm nervously. “Who is that?”
“My brother-in-law,” Jane said, delighted that her transport problems had been so neatly solved. “Max, what a surprise. And what excellent time you made. Have you come for me?” She braced herself for a tongue-lashing.
“I ought to throttle you!” Max growled, drawing her into a hard, relieved hug. “Frightening Abby like that. And Lady Beatrice is beside herself.”
Jane stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “But I was perfectly all right. I had Polly and William with me all the time. And see—it was worth it.” She drew Cecily forward. “This is Cecily, former Countess of Wainfleet. Cecily, my brother-in-law Max, Lord Davenham.”
Max blinked. “You found her!”
“Yes. And she’s agreed to come to London with us and testify that she’s not dead after all.” Jane couldn’t help grinning; she wanted to dance and sing and cheer. Zachary Black was safe.
* * *
“Why the devil didn’t you simply ask me to drive you?” Max said over luncheon. He’d decided to give the horses a two-hour spell and set off for London that same day. Jane agreed. The sooner she could get Cecily to London, the sooner Zachary would be out of jail.
“I didn’t think you’d agree,” Jane told him. “Would you have?”
“Probably not,” he conceded.
“Are Abby and Lady Bea really upset?”
“Very.” He gave her a baleful look. “It helped that you took William.”
“How did you find me so quickly?”
He said dryly, “Next time you go to stay with your grandmother in the country, you might remember to tell that grandmother it would be better if she didn’t then come to make a morning call in Berkeley Square.”
“Oh.”
His lips twitched. “It wasn’t hard to guess where you were heading for.”
“I thought Daisy would have told you—she tried so hard to talk me out of it.”
He grinned. “It was Daisy’s uncharacteristic silence that got Lady Beatrice so worried in the first place. The poor girl almost burst from trying to avoid speaking at all.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Made you a promise not to talk, did she?”
Jane nodded.
* * *
After a quick lunch they set off in Max’s chaise. It was a bit of a squash—Cecily had brought her daughter, Winnie, with her. It seemed Winnie had known all along that Michael Williams wasn’t her real father—though Cecily conveyed with a warning look at Jane that she didn’t know anything else—and now that she’d discovered she had a big half brother, she was eager to meet him.
Cecily had left a letter for Michael, saying she’d had to go to London on a family matter, and she and Winnie would be back in about ten days.
On the journey Jane got to know Zachary’s little sister better. She was a shy child, but sweet-natured and very eager to learn all she could about her newfound brother. Cecily was one of those people who, like Polly, could sleep a journey away. Since Jane was not, she was delighted to talk to Winnie about her brother, relating some of the stories she’d heard from him.
By the end of the journey she and Winnie were firm friends.
Max’s chaise was better sprung than the post chaise—they weren’t called “yellow bounders” for nothing—but it was still an exhausting and relentless journey. Max changed horses every twenty miles, and they made good time, arriving in Berkeley Square midmorning of the third day.
Featherby must have been watching out for their arrival, because he ran down the front steps and spoke to Max before the carriage steps were let down to let the ladies alight.
Max opened the carriage door himself. “You have ten minutes to relieve yourselves and tidy up.” He looked at Jane. “Freddy and Gil Radcliffe have managed to get a preliminary hearing set up for Wainfleet—a magistrate will hear the evidence against him and decide whether there is a case to answer in the House of Lords. It’s already started, so hurry!”
They raced inside, used the necessary, and in less than ten minutes were weaving through the traffic to the place where the hearing was being conducted.
Chapter Twenty-six
Know your own happiness. Want for nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name: Call it hope.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
“We were damned lucky to get a preliminary hearing,” Gil said. Zach knew it. Gil and Freddy Monkton-Coombes—a fellow whom Zach didn’t even know!—had moved heaven and earth to make it happen. Cousin Gerald had fought just as strenuously to prevent it.
But Freddy Monkton-Coombes knew people and had pulled strings on Zach’s behalf, and Gil and his lawyer had managed to cause enough doubt to get a magistrate to
agree to hear the evidence and decide whether or not there was a case to answer.
The hearing was being conducted in a large meeting room, not a formal courtroom. Zachary was seated at a small table to one side, flanked by Gil on one side, and his lawyer on the other. At another table sat Cousin Gerald and his lawyer. He’d claimed to be representing Cecily, the murder victim, as the heir to her husband, the late Lord Wainfleet.
At the front sat the magistrate, a hawk-faced elderly man, sharp, fiercely intelligent and something of a radical; he’d made it clear that he didn’t have much time for aristocrats who thought they could get away with murder. Or pull strings on their friend’s behalf.
Just Zach’s luck to get one of the few scrupulously honest magistrates in London.
The doors were opened and a crowd of people surged in. Zach was taken aback. He’d imagined it would be a small affair.
“That’s the Wainfleet contingent,” Gil murmured in Zach’s ear as a dozen or more people took seats down the front. Zach nodded dazedly as he glimpsed faces he hadn’t seen in years, as well as some he’d met on his recent visit to Wainfleet.
“My man had instructions to bring up only those witnesses who could give actual evidence—there was almost a riot when he limited it to eight people.”
“Eight? There looks to me more than that.”
Gil nodded. “We had to hire an extra carriage. Everyone wants to testify that it couldn’t possibly have been you who killed Cecily.” He glanced at Zach. “Do you have any idea how they feel about you down there? It’s positively feudal.”
Zach nodded, a lump in his throat as he watched the Wainfleet people file in—his people. Some faces, like the Wilkses, were familiar, and a man he thought might be Briggs, the gamekeeper. There was Sykes, his father’s old coachman, and a number of others Zach couldn’t place—maids, footmen, gardeners—it looked like Gil had imported the entire Wainfleet staff.
“We argued their testimonies were vital; was a way to delay the hearing,” Gil murmured. “I don’t have much hope that their evidence will help, but they were all determined to argue on your behalf.”
Zach swallowed, touched by their loyalty. “No sign of Cecily?”
Gil shook his head.
Others filed in. To Zach’s surprise, Lady Beatrice arrived, and took a seat at the front of the room. She was accompanied by three of her nieces—none of them Jane—and a lanky, elegant fellow that Gil said was Freddy Monkton-Coombes. Who’d pulled strings to help get this preliminary hearing. Zach nodded to them all. Why had they come?
And more to the point, where was Jane?
Why had her family come, but not Jane? She couldn’t be ill—if she were, her aunt and sisters wouldn’t be here. So . . . was she angry? Upset?
He examined their expressions and decided they looked more dutiful than anything. No smiles or hopeful nods such as the Wainfleet servants were giving him. Was her family here to bear witness to his downfall? Because he’d ruined her life?
A small knot of smartly dressed young men caught his attention as they entered and took seats near the back. Each one of them nodded to Zach, and with amazement, he recognized boys he’d gone to school with, friends not seen for twelve years, now grown up. He nodded to them, his throat full.
Everybody from Zach’s world was here; everybody—apart from Cousin Gerald—had come to show support. Except Jane.
He felt gutted by her absence. But he couldn’t blame her. He’d sent her away, fool that he was. And she’d believed him when he said he felt for her only what a friend would feel. Though why had she called off her betrothal? The same old questions, endlessly circling in his brain . . .
The hearing started. First the original coroner’s report was discussed. Then one by one the witnesses from Wainfleet were questioned by the magistrate.
The gamekeeper, Briggs, began by stating his firm belief that young Master Adam had had naught to do with it, that Master Adam was a good lad and never did no harm to man nor beast—nor woman. Then he’d gone on to describe how he’d seen the countess’s body caught in the reeds.
The magistrate fired questions at him. Briggs answered them in a firm voice.
“Yes, it was definitely the countess’s body. She had been missing for three days before they found her body.”
“Yes, young Master Adam had disappeared at the same time, but he couldn’t have—”
“Yes, sir, her skull was cracked and she’d been thrown in the water. But Master Adam had naught to do with it. He couldn’t have . . .”
For all Briggs’s good intentions, the testimony was damning. Zach gave him a friendly nod as he sat down, to show he had no hard feelings, but Briggs couldn’t look at him.
Next, one of the former Wainfleet maids came forward. She also testified to it being definitely the countess’s body. Yes, she was certain. She knew her ladyship well; she’d attended her in the bath. But she too was certain it couldn’t have been Zach, even though it was true that he’d disappeared the same night as the countess. “He was always a nice, quiet boy.”
As she returned to her seat, the magistrate turned his head and gave the “nice, quiet boy” a hard, you’re-wasting-my-time glance.
Several of the servants testified that Zach and his father had argued often and that the arguments frequently ended in violence. They’d insisted the violence was all on the late earl’s side, but as the magistrate pointed out, the late earl wasn’t there to defend himself.
As one by one the Wainfleet people stepped up, defending Zach with nothing but faith and loyalty—and love—the lump grew in his throat. He felt guilty for his long neglect of them—his people, they’d made that clear—and of Wainfleet. He loved it, he realized—and only understood that now, when he was about to lose it all. And disgrace it.
He was sunk. He was going to hang. He just wished . . . No, better that he didn’t see Jane again, not while he was in prison. Nor on trial. Better that she forget him and marry . . . someone else.
There was a slight stir at the back of the room, where it was standing room only. Late arrivals, come just in time to see him indicted for murder.
Dammit, why had she severed her betrothal to Cambury? He might be a bore, but he would at least have taken good care of her.
The laundry maid was called next, but instead, a tall, elegantly dressed man in buckskins and high boots arrogantly pushed his way to the front of the room. The hawk-faced magistrate frowned in irritation. “Yes? Yes? What is it? If you have evidence to give, you can wait your turn.” He waved the tall man aside.
He took no notice. “I am Lord Davenham, and I believe producing the so-called murder victim, alive and well, supersedes all other evidence.” There was an audible gasp, then the entire room held its collective breath as he said, “Cecily Aston-Black, Countess of Wainfleet, is not dead.”
The calm, authoritative statement caused a sensation.
Zach sat up, his heart beating frantically. He scanned the crowded room, but half the audience was on its feet and everyone was weaving back and forth and craning their necks in an effort to see what was going on and he couldn’t see.
Hawk-face was the only one in the room who remained unimpressed. He called for quiet, then said, “I presume you have evidence to support this outrageous statement?”
The tall man inclined his head. “The best evidence of all—the so-called victim herself, Cecily Aston-Black, Countess of Wainfleet, in person.”
Zach’s fingernails bit into his palm. He waited, his throat dry, his heart pounding. Pray God this wasn’t another trick of Gil’s. If he had found someone to imitate Cecily . . .
He glanced at Gil, but he looked as surprised as anyone.
There was a stir at the back of the room as a woman started slowly forward, a pale, pretty young woman with fair, curly hair and frightened blue eyes. Cecily!
Shaking like a leaf, she thr
eaded her way to the front of the room. Nobody moved; nobody spoke.
It really was her! Zach started to breathe again. Hope, dammed up for so long, broke free, first in a trickle, then in a flood. Cecily was here. He was saved.
The magistrate gestured, and one of his men brought a chair forward for her to sit. Hawk-face might not like aristocrats, Zach thought, but he wasn’t immune to a pretty face.
Whispers rippled through the audience as she faced them and sat.
She’d changed a little in the twelve years since he’d last seen her—she’d put on some weight, and was looking more matronly, but it really was Cecily. How had they found her? Where? Relief swamped him.
It didn’t matter how or where—she’d been found. She was here. Zach owed Davenham his life.
The room fell silent as Cecily folded her hands in her lap and waited.
“Your name?”
“Cecily Aston-Black, former Countess of Wainfleet.” She spoke almost in a whisper. A hushed ripple echoed through the audience.
“Can anyone here vouch for your identity?”
Cecily looked around helplessly. She stood and looked at a group of women in the third row. “Is that Joan? And Mary? And . . . I think . . . is it Mabel?”
“And who are Joan and Mary and Mabel?” Hawk-face asked.
The three women stood. “Please your honor,” said one. “We were maids when her ladyship was at Wainfleet.”
“And do you recognize this woman?”
All three nodded vigorously. “’Tis the countess, for sure,” one said. “Bless you, my lady, we all thought you dead.” Tears streamed down the woman’s face.
Zach knew how she felt.
Hawk-face stabbed a long, bony finger at one of the maids. “You told us all, not ten minutes ago, that you saw ‘her poor drownded body’ pulled from the lake. That it was definitely the countess.”
The woman looked ready to burst into tears. “I was certain too, me lord, but”—she looked at Cecily—“that’s definitely the countess. I don’t understand it, but that’s her, all right.”
