In the weeks that followed, the full scale of what happened to Darton became glaringly apparent. The man was accused of treason for the sale of secrets to French Revolutionaries and embezzlement from the crown, as well as murder.
There were no more serious offenses to level against the man.
When the newspapers discovered this, Callum’s father, Edgar had forbidden him from seeing Elizabeth. Callum ignored the order and refused to abandon her, even if the gossips had already latched onto this news and had ruined Elizabeth’s reputation.
In the weeks leading up to Darton’s trial, Elizabeth suddenly vanished. Though the trial took a mere two days, Callum didn’t see her in the courtroom, much as he scoured the halls for her.
On the third day, Darton was executed.
Callum never found Elizabeth—none of her household staff knew her whereabouts, Barritt claimed he didn’t either, and after following the man for weeks, Callum believed him. She had simply vanished.
His father had been in rare form, and they’d done little but fight over the Dartons’ disgrace. Callum ignored every decree his father threw at him and continued his search for Elizabeth.
Callum turned from the window and with measured steps moved to his desk. He disliked drowning in memories; the good ones rarely lasted long before what came afterwards threatened. Anger and frustration pounded through him, but he had his emotions well under control once again.
Pulling out the papers from the Crown’s financial office, Callum methodically reviewed them once more. He’d spent a considerable part of his fortune bribing far too many people to get these, but he’d needed the physical proof to present in court. With these papers, however, Callum had mercilessly hunted down the true conspirators.
“Garrow and Dervin are well trapped,” he muttered, scanning the sheets once more though he’d long ago memorized their contents.
Granted, thus far Dervin had managed to evade both the Bow Street runners and Callum’s own hired men, but Callum was confident it was only a matter of time before he found the bastard.
He didn’t know what alerted him. Callum had been so wrapped up in the day’s happenings he hadn’t noticed the time. Perhaps it was the shadow of the sun across the gardens, or his internal clock, but he knew.
The one lingering presence of Elizabeth that remained in his life.
Quickly standing, he made for the rear doors. Once in the garden he immediately looked for the gates, where the heavy iron of them remained open. Looking from the gate to the low stone wall, he instantly spotted the single white rose. It’d been such a romantic gesture, one only a woman would have thought of.
Elizabeth had thought of it immediately after their return to London from Bath, and Callum was grateful she had. He’d caught the delivery boy once, but the lad hadn’t known a thing. The florist had long ago been paid to continue delivery of the rose, once a week, for two years. Half that time had already passed, but Callum didn’t dwell on that fact.
Slowly crossing to the rose, he picked it up and sniffed its delicate blossom. He’d given her a single white rose while they’d still been in Bath, and attributed her gesture now to that event.
Callum wondered, as he did every week, if he’d continue to pay the florist after Elizabeth’s payment ran out, if only to have her with him in this small way. He turned and scanned the street, but knew he’d not see her.
“I will find you,” he said to the empty street beyond.
Heading back for the house, Callum chastised himself for admitting to such thoughts. He would find her. And she would be here in this house where she belonged. With him.
Holding the stem, careful of the thorns, he reentered his study and set the rose on his desk. The maids were terrified of so much as approaching his desk since the first time one of them had cleaned up the fallen petals.
The rose kept him tethered to her and he would not lose that faint connection for anything.
Chapter Three
Miss Elizabeth Darton watched Callum reenter the house. He held the rose as gently as he had the first one she’d sent so many months ago, and her heart melted a little at the sight. She needed to let him go, allow him to move on with his life and forget her.
She shouldn’t have sent those roses, but Elizabeth hadn’t been able to help it. No matter what had happened, she still needed that connection to Callum.
He disappeared into the townhouse, and she stepped from the doorway. She’d chosen it because of the angle it offered her into the gardens, not directly across from the gates, but just enough so that, in the late afternoon, Callum would have trouble seeing her.
Which hadn’t stopped him, and more than once she’d had to hasten down the street before he caught her. It was worth it, however, for even so fleeting a glimpse of him. Other men would have abandoned her at even the first whisper of scandal. But as far as she could tell, Callum never had.
He’d endured more than a romantic scandal, easily weathered, soon forgotten, but the scandal of treason held a taint that never faded. Yet, he endured it for her.
Just as he hadn’t abandoned her, she wouldn’t leave him to the vipers he so ruthlessly taunted.
Elizabeth gave one last look at the townhouse, closed up tight with a footman on guard should any foolish enough dare try to so much as speak with Callum. She smoothed a hand down the full skirt of her gown, the simple calico fabric very worn and frayed at the hems. She looked like a poor merchant’s daughter.
And that was exactly how she wished to present herself.
Her clothing deterred many from speaking to her on such a fashionable street, but it was more than her clothing and she knew it. With her scarred face, people were all too careful not to give her a second glance.
She moved with the crowd on the busy London streets, easily keeping pace with them and hiding from any who might recognize her. None had, at least no one admitted to it, but there was always that one gossip who reveled in such unfortunate meetings, and Elizabeth didn’t wish to be subjected to such an encounter.
London hadn’t changed in the year or so since her world had crumbled around her. Most days that comforted Elizabeth, knowing things continued on in so unrelenting a manner. Today, however, it did not. She had changed so much, Elizabeth doubted she could ever return to the woman she once was.
Whoever that woman had been, even she barely remembered it.
Tilting her head higher, Elizabeth continued through the crowded streets, never meeting anyone’s gaze, stride purposeful until she turned into the shopping bazaar, The Western Exchange. Expertly dodging carriage traffic and vigilant shopkeepers, Elizabeth turned for the cobbler’s when she heard the boy.
She stopped and listened, already several steps closer to the hawker before his words registered. “Garrow to hang! Darton proven innocent of all!” The boy yelled among the cacophony of shoppers in the bazaar.
Tears stung her eyes and she took an unsteady step to the side.
He’d done it. Callum had cleared her father’s name. Her name.
Elizabeth stared at the boy as he repeatedly called out his news, expertly ignoring her as she listened. Around her, people continued to jostle but she paid them no mind in the crowded marketplace.
Heart pounding, uncertain how to take this news, Elizabeth rushed for the cobbler’s. He ignored her, as he had since her second visit to the Club, and continued on with his business. She moved around the store to a door set to one side. Opening it, she slipped in and waited just inside the cobbler’s storage area. She knew that through the door at the rear of the storage and down the hall lay the true entrance to the notorious Hellfire Club.
She’d never been inside the actual Club, but she’d known of its existence for some time. Her father had mentioned it on occasion when he didn’t think she listened or even understood the true nature of his conversation. But it was her mother, before her death, who had told her of the political machinations and carnal sins of the Club.
When her father had first been ar
rested, Mr. Barritt introduced her to Donald. Donald is a powerful figure in this private club, Barritt had told her and suggested she offer her body to him in trade for assistance with her father’s case.
Truly scandalized, Elizabeth had not wanted to entertain such a notion, but when she saw her father suffering at Newgate Prison, knew she had to do all in her power to help him. At Barritt’s urging, she met Donald. Not as tall as Callum, only slightly taller than she herself, Donald had gazed at her with impassive blue eyes, neither encouraging nor dismissing.
Swallowing her pride, Elizabeth had offered herself to him. And in the process, had made a fool of herself.
However, Donald never held her attempt against her; he’d simply listened, and in the end offered his help in any way he could. Now, waiting for the shoemaker to signal the guard, who would slip a note to Donald, Elizabeth knew she’d always be grateful for the help Donald offered. Help and knowledge.
For during the time since her father’s arrest, she had discovered much of the scheme to frame her family.
But it was Callum who uncovered it all. Callum who relentlessly sought out the bastards who had murdered her father. Callum who, just today, cleared her father’s name. Every instinct in her body told her to run back to his townhouse and fall to her knees in gratitude.
The rear door opened, and she quickly slipped behind the large storage shelf to her usual hiding place. The man who walked by and out to the main bazaar was not Donald. Elizabeth recognized him as Sir Adam Talbott, one of the Club members. She’d gotten to know many of the faces of those in the Club from her time hiding in this exact spot. Only once had she seen Callum enter, and even now a myriad of emotions pressed around her.
Her thoughts were slanted by the emotion of the moment. She could never return to Callum, not anymore, and knew that. Standing, Elizabeth amended that last thought; her head knew she should never see him again. Her heart believed otherwise.
Settling against one of the shelves piled high with cloth, Elizabeth desperately tried to cleave all emotion, but knew it to be impossible. Even when she’d disappeared from Callum’s life, she’d maintained a thread of connection to him through the rose.
It had been his father, Edgar, then Earl of Aycliff, who had visited her. With the news of her father’s treasonous charges spreading like wildfire, they’d received no visitors, but the butler had allowed Edgar into the house because of his connection to Elizabeth’s betrothed. She didn’t blame the butler; he couldn’t have known and had been one of the few servants to remain loyal to the family after the scandal had broke.
Fury such as she’d never seen emanated from the earl in such waves of hot anger, she wondered he didn’t combust. He’d stalked into the room, cane tapping on the marble floors in an ominous tattoo. He’d said something, with the distance of memory Elizabeth couldn’t recall what. His entire demeanor terrified her; the wild fury in his eyes, the rigid stance, the immediately obvious fact that he had not come to offer his support during this time but to berate her.
Order her away from Callum.
“I want you gone,” he hissed, stepping closer in intimidation. “Erased from my son’s life. Your family is nothing but a disgrace. A stain on my good name.”
His voice didn’t raise, didn’t echo from the rafters, but remained low and hard, even in his anger. The earl leaned closer, his dark eyes, so like Callum’s, black with emotion.
“I understand how you feel, my lord,” Elizabeth had countered in an even voice. She had swallowed and pleaded with him. The Aycliff family had enough power in Parliament to have this case dismissed. “But you have to understand, my father is not guilty of the horrible crimes leveled against him. I love Callum with everything in me!”
The earl had pulled back just slightly. “Your emotions mean nothing,” he had said cruelly. “Not now, not during this.”
“Please,” she begged. “Please allow me the chance to prove my father—”
She had never seen it, had never known he had moved. He’d used one of the many Italian vases in the parlor to strike her. Afterwards, all Elizabeth remembered was blood. On the earl’s hand, on hers, staining the Turkish rug and her gown.
Her face burned and she knew she cried out from the pain, but the earl hadn’t so much as offered his handkerchief. Hands covered with blood, Elizabeth had tried to staunch the flow.
“Your delusions are of no concern to me,” the earl spat. “You’ll never prove your father innocent. I’d rather see Callum dead, my line ended, than married to you.”
Now, in the silence of the storage room, Elizabeth fingered the scar. It ran from her hairline, over eyebrow and lips, across her left cheek, and down her neck. She knew the butler and remaining maids had rushed in once the earl left; knew a doctor had been sent for and had refused to come. It had been the cook who saw to her face, dressed it as best she could, all the while murmuring apologies as if she’d had something to do with the earl’s madness.
In the two days that followed, Elizabeth never knew why Callum hadn’t visited her, hadn’t found a way to see her. She still did wonder, but now suspected he’d been trying to prove her father’s innocence. It had been Callum who had paid for the barrister, Callum who had seen the servants received severance.
But by then Elizabeth had been long gone. She’d taken what money she had, what her father had hidden in his own rooms, several pieces of her mother’s jewelry, and disappeared.
“My dear.”
The words startled Elizabeth out of her thoughts, out of the past. Donald stood before her. She glanced to the rear door—she’d never even heard it open. Quickly composing herself, she knew to be more wary than this, Elizabeth held out her hand for Donald to clasp between his warmer ones.
Silently, he led her out of the storage room and through the Western Exchange. They walked slowly, the pair of them a common enough sight in the bazaar. She met with Donald at least once a week, more on his insistence and inquiries into her welfare than anything else.
Not entirely, and Elizabeth knew that. Donald had been a comfort this last year, more than—he’d been her only friend. It had been Donald who arranged for a room at the rooming house, Donald who knew which pawn shops to trust for the most honest price for her mother’s jewels.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Donald said once they’d reached a relatively quiet street. “Lord Aycliff has done an exceptional job in finding justice for your father. It’s very difficult to have a treason conviction overturned; his evidence must have been irrefutable for the Crown to agree to it.”
A smile crossed her face, and try as she might, Elizabeth couldn’t stop it, or the sentiment that warmed her. “He’s done for me a service for which I can never repay him.”
“Perhaps,” Donald said with a sly look at her, “you should let him know you’re in London.”
Despite the warmth of a moment ago, his words froze her blood. Elizabeth had thought of that, of course she had. But couldn’t. Could never tell Callum. She looked to Donald for a moment, trying to form words, but mutely shook her head.
“I can’t,” she eventually admitted. “I can’t. I only wish to see to his safety,” she went on in a stronger voice despite the war between heart and head. “Callum has entered a lion’s den.”
“Have you heard more on Dervin?” he asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. Donald had the vastest resources she could have ever conceived of, and they knew naught of the man who conspired to frame her father. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, she knew that, but she had needed to seek out information on her own without the intermediary Donald presented.
He knew she frequented the seediest of pubs, the most hellish of the gaming hells, but had only admonished her to proceed safely. Well, she amended with a flash of affection for the man, that and to learn to shoot properly.
“No,” she admitted. “He moves constantly, from pub to pub, never staying in the same inn twice and never revealing his true identity to those establishments h
e does enter.” Her voice lowered and she tried to control the fear that snaked through her. When she spoke, the tremble vibrated through her words. “I’ve heard he wishes to harm Callum.”
Donald patted her hand and held it more securely in the crook of his elbow. Despite the cool spring evening, he wore only his afternoon clothes, no cloak or greatcoat, a top hat and gloves, but carried no cane. Still, Elizabeth felt safer with him by her side than she had in weeks.
“I’ve heard the same,” he admitted. “In fact, I’m told he’s hired a man to follow Callum though I fear there’s more to it than that.
“Something like this was bound to happen,” she agreed quietly. “Dervin must be desperate to rid himself of Callum now that Garrow has been convicted.” Turning to him, she stopped the slow walk and asked, “Can you warn Callum?”
“My dear,” Donald said, urging her back the way they’d come. “I’ve tried. But he disregards everything I’ve tried. I believe,” he added as they watched a group of urchins race away from a shouting carriage driver. “I believe he disregards his own safety.”
“I must see to that myself.” Elizabeth bit her lower lip then nodded decisively.
“Elizabeth.” Donald stopped her again and turned so she couldn’t miss the warning in his gaze. The normally affable blue eyes looked hard and concerned, and it touched her that he cared so greatly for her wellbeing.
Shaking his head, he said nothing, but she knew his concerns.
The Western Exchange loomed ahead. Some shops closed up, others hoped for that last customer. Only the cobbler’s would remain accessible throughout the evening and long into the night. The Hellfire Club never closed.
“Don’t worry,” she promised Donald as they rounded the stalls. The cobbler’s lay in sight, but she had no need to enter that establishment. “I’ve learned much this last year on the streets of London.”
Chapter Four
The silence of the house settled over him, threatening to suffocate him. His staff, long used to his nightly roamings, were already abed. Callum envied them that, their ability to sleep, their minds at rest.
Aycliff's Vow: A Hellfire Club Erotique Page 2
