“Doubtful,” Charles muttered morosely. He stared into the depths of his tankard. He could see his reflection in the drink’s surface.
Arthur was silent for a long time. So long that Charles finally looked up. Arthur was studying him sadly.
“You really do love her, then?” he asked.
“I really do,” Charles said. He downed his entire drink.
“Have another,” Arthur suggested.
“I will, thank you,” Charles replied, waving to the barkeep.
Arthur sat and listened to Charles’s woes. Never once did he suggest that Charles find another more suitable woman or lady. He merely sat and listened. It was exactly what Charles needed. He didn’t think that he would be able to move past Arabella.
There is simply no one like her.
When they finally exited the Black Dog, they ran into Lord Drysdale.
“Mr. Conolly!” he said. “My dear man. I’ve just heard what happened at the Duke of Tiverwell’s.”
Charles was horrified. “Does all of London know?” he demanded, looking at Arthur, who stepped in.
“Dear Mr. Conolly is drinking to soothe his broken heart,” Arthur explained. “Please assure him, My Lord, that his mortification is not, in fact, known to all.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” Lord Drysdale assured him. “I merely stopped in to discuss a bit of business with the Duke.”
“It’s all right, dear friend,” Arthur assured him, patting Charles on the shoulder. Charles exhaled, relaxing a little.
“For my part,” Lord Drysdale said. “I’m very sorry to hear that he’s turned you down. I’ve seen you with Lady Arabella. It’s easy to see how truly the two of you light up when you’re together.”
“Thank you, M’Lord,” Charles said, slurring his words. He held out his hand, which the Viscount of Drysdale shook heartily. “I hope that you’re well.”
“I am. I’m courting Lady Violet Fanning,” he said. “We are to be married in January.”
“Good to hear,” Charles said.
“I imagine that I’ll have some estate planning to do,” Lord Drysdale said.
“I’d be happy to help, M’Lord,” Charles replied.
“Good. I’ll be in touch to schedule an appointment,” Lord Drysdale said, raising his hat. With that, he was gone, vanishing into the crowd.
“He’s a kind sort of gentleman,” Arthur remarked.
“The best,” Charles agreed, leaning on his friend.
“Let’s get you home,” Arthur said.
“I had been ready to let her fit up the house,” Charles said sadly. All of his plans, come to nothing, in the space of a morning.
“I know, old chum,” Arthur replied mournfully.
It had been three days since Charles’ failed visit to her father. In that time, Arabella had not broken down. She had not spoken to, nor looked at her father.
Dinner was a silent affair. The air was filled with the sound of cutlery clinking against plates. Arabella kept her gaze on her food. She only spoke to her mother, not that her father was saying anything to her.
“Lady Catsmore is considering purchasing a second chaise,” her mother said. “I told her that it was such a necessary expense.”
“What does second chaise matter?” Arabella asked. “But I suppose if you’ve married for money, and not love, then that’s all that matters to you.” She finally looked at her father. “Is that who you wish me to become, Father? Obsessed with buying more than one chaise? Until I die, and then I can use it to bury myself in?”
Her father looked at her. Cold fury was spread across his features. He said nothing. Clearly, the matter of Arabella falling in love with her father’s barrister was still smarting.
“I barely recognize you of late,” she said, turning her gaze toward her plate.
“How dare you sit at my table, and eat my food,” he stated, “while you speak ill of me.” There was no fury in his voice—the icy calmness of it was chilling.
“Do you wish me to starve, then?” she asked, looking him in the eye.
“It is because I do not wish you to starve that I turned down Mr. Conolly,” he replied.
She stared at him. She didn’t know what else to say. Charles was well-off. He had assured her as much. He worked for nearly every gentleman of the ton, and Arabella knew that they paid him well. How was he going to lose all of his money, when he was putting it away in the bank, to provide for her comfort?
“Arabella,” her father went on. “Can’t you see that it’s because I love you that I’m doing this? It’s because I want for you to have the same economic and social status to which you are used.”
“I just want to be with the man that I love,” she replied, trying to get him to see things from her point of view.
“He cannot offer you the life that a gentleman would,” her father replied. “We have raised you to be an independent thinker, but we have not raised you to live in a middle-class home on a middle-class income. You will struggle. While you may be able to mix with the ton, they will no longer count you as one of their own. You will be thrust out of your good standing in Society. It’s in your best interest that you marry someone who is, in every way, your equal.”
“I said as much to you during the summer,” her mother added. “You must marry a gentleman who challenges you.”
“You are the daughter of a Duke,” her father said. “You are to marry a Duke, and I will find a gentleman who is suitable—one who respects your interests and treats you with kindness. You will marry him, and there will be no more talk of marrying Mr. Conolly.”
Her throat felt tight. “How can you trust someone so implicitly with your own affairs that you believed to be after your money? Have you fired him, then?”
“No. I have not,” her father replied.
“Are you planning to do so, then?” she asked.
“No,” her father replied. “I will continue to retain his services. I will continue dealings with Mr. Conolly as I have been. However, you are never to be alone with him, ever.”
“Of course.” She could barely speak.
“You are not to communicate with him,” he went on.
“As you wish.” She stared down at her empty plate. She could see her parents’ point, as well as their fears. Comfort and luxury, as well as the power of a title were no small consideration. While Charles could offer her comfort, there would be neither luxury nor title.
Nonetheless, she was disappointed and heartbroken. Without her father’s approbation, there was nothing to be done. He would not be convinced. She would have to give him up. But she would not marry, not without love.
Chapter Seventeen
Charles stood along the wall. He watched as the gentlemen and ladies of the ton mingled. It was Lord Drysdale’s engagement party to Lady Violet Fanning, daughter of the Earl of Bryndon. Lord Diggar had spotted him, and made his way over.
“Sorry I forgot about our appointment,” he said. “Is there any way that I can reschedule?”
“Absolutely, My Lord,” Charles said. “Let me know when you are coming.”
“Of course, of course,” Lord Diggar replied. He walked away—clearly, he was drunk again. Charles frowned. The Earl of Diggar had always been a bit of a drunkard, but he had been particularly bad of late.
Charles spied Arabella, watching him. He was concerned to find that she looked peaked, her eyes dark. He nodded to her, going over to the tea service to pour himself a cup. She sidled up beside him.
“Are you well, My Lady?” he asked in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the tea as he stirred it.
“As well as can be expected,” she replied. “I want to apologize for my father’s behavior.”
“I made the mistake of assuming that I was your equal,” he replied. “I will not do so again, My Lady.”
When he finally looked her in the eye, she looked as though she were about to cry. He glanced around, to find that they were wholly unobserved. Even the Duke of Tiverwell was deep in conver
sation with Lord Drysdale. Charles dared to take her by the hand.
Arabella had so much to say to him, but was wholly unable to. The touch of his hand, meant to reassure her only made it worse. She so craved his touch, and to have it. She sniffled.
“You are my equal,” she whispered.
“We’ll both have to move on,” he replied woodenly. It was a platitude—one that he didn’t mean.
“I won’t be able to,” she told him.
“You cannot mean to—”
“They cannot force me to,” she explained, cutting him off. “I cannot marry where I do not love.”
Her mother came over. “Mr. Conolly,” she said. “How are you?”
He let go of Arabella’s hand, as if he’d been burned. “I am well, Your Grace. I hope that you are, as well?”
“Yes, thank you,” the Duchess said. Her eyes spoke a warning to both of them. She had seen, and heard much. Perhaps, she had even been watching for such an eventuality as this.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, My Lady.” He gave Arabella a pained grin, then walked away. Arabella turned back toward the table, finding that he’d abandoned his tea.
“Arabella,” her mother said. “You cannot be seen speaking to him.”
“Did Father send you over?” she asked.
“No,” she replied. “But if he had, he would have been livid to see that he was holding your hand in public! Have you no shame?”
Arabella didn’t answer that. She couldn’t. She glanced at her mother. The Duchess was frowning in disapprobation, still waiting for an answer. Arabella turned and walked away, leaving her mother beside the refreshments. Somehow, she needed to survive the next few hours, watching Lord Drysdale and Lady Violet, as they looked absolutely happy.
Any moment now, Josias Montagu, the illustrious Earl of Diggar, will walk through that door.
The Murdered waited, in the shadows, by the door.
He won’t see me until it’s far too late…
The Murderer would never have been able to touch him while at home. Luckily, the Earl of Diggar had come to London on so-called “business.” Due to his numerous indiscretions, he wouldn’t be staying in his fancy Mayfair townhome. He was staying at a grimy inn, where no one he knows would see him.
Earlier, the Murderer had watched the Earl of Diggar leave. He’d already been walking in the odd fashion of those who are on their way to being very drunk. That was when the Murderer slipped in.
The door opened, and Lord Diggar walked inside. He was ugly, on both the inside and the outside. His jowls sank into the collar of his expensive shirt. He was wearing a dark crimson velvet jacket. He glanced down at his golden pocket watch, then closed the door, swaying ominously.
In the darkness, Lord Diggar didn’t see the Murderer, who could easily smell him, though.
The Earl has been drinking. He’s made my work that much easier.
In the shadows, the Murderer moved quietly, standing behind him. The Murderer raised the knife to Lord Diggar’s throat. The Lord tensed. The smell of liquor and tobacco was strong. It was almost as if he had sat in a bath filled with them.
It makes my stomach turn.
“What do you want?” Lord Diggar demanded. “How did you get in here?”
“I think you know, My Lord,” The Murderer said. “I know you’ve gotten my letters.”
“Nemesis,” Lord Diggar whispered.
“Yes.”
“Money? I have…nearly three hundred pounds with me...”
“I only want your death,” the Murderer whispered in his ear, drawing the blade across Lord Diggar’s throat. A small amount of hot blood splattered across the Murderer’s hand and cheek. The Murderer let go, and the Earl slumped forward, landing heavily on his knees as he died. He made an odd, gurgling noise, then fell onto his face.
Reaching into his pocket, the Murderer took his fancy golden watch, wiping the bloody knife clean on the back of Lord Diggar’s expensive jacket.
Soft, luscious velvet, of course. Only the best for the Earl of Diggar, who is now food for worms.
Slipping the knife into an inside jacket pocket, the Murderer put the pocket watch into an outside pocket, like a gentleman would. The Murderer would never be a gentleman, in truth. The Murderer could pretend, just for the night.
The Murderer stepped out into the hall, which was dark, lit only by the light that spilled beneath the doors of the rooms. The Murderer could see shadows, from where persons walked about in the safety behind those doors.
No one has heard a sound that they find alarming.
It would be a while before Lord Diggar was noticed missing, but that is what happens when someone has a secret life. Sometimes, that secret life puts that person in the way of an avenger.
The Murderer walked down the stairs, glancing at the crowded pub, and then outside. The streets were full at that hour. Many people were rushing to and fro. Carriages raced by, sending up a spray of mud. The Murderer was unseen, veins filled with a quicksilver feeling—that rush that accompanied a successful kill.
As the Murderer walked through the street, a man collided with them.
“Watch where you’re going,” the Murderer hissed.
“Sorry,” he muttered, as he continued to rush.
There was a clatter as something fell. The Murderer presumed that it was the man’s. The man was just lucky that he wasn’t on his kill list.
When the Murderer reached the end of the street, they noticed that Montagu’s watch had fallen out of their pocket. Disappointment seared through Nemesis. It was supposed to pay for Nemesis’s new life. The one that Nemesis would have after the successful completion of the kill list.
Looking back, the crowd in the street moved along apace.
I can’t risk going back and being seen.
Usually, the Murderer was invisible to all. But now that an Earl lay murdered on the floor of his room at the inn, everyone would be visible, no matter their status. Nemesis kept walking.
There will be other trinkets, just as there will be other deaths.
Chapter Eighteen
A group of constables suddenly entered the Black Dog, where Charles was drinking with a group of friends. All of them were London barristers, and they met up once a week to drink. They would fight it out all week in chambers, then when Friday eve came around, they would all go out on the town together—friends. It was a rule with all of them not to talk shop. What was said and done in chambers remained there.
“I wonder what the fuss is about.” Charles muttered, watching as the group of dark-dressed constables climbed the stairs to the second floor of the pub, which served as an inn.
“Looks like something happened upstairs,” Arthur replied.
“We should get out of here,” Alistair Morton added. “Don’t want to be here if there’s a big to-do.”
“Agreed,” Arthur said, bringing his tankard to his lips, and tipping his head back to swallow the dregs.
They all got up, and then made their way to the door, Charles trailing along behind them. They all gathered on the street.
“Let’s head over to the Ox Bow!” Arthur Hinkley suggested. The whole group muttered their agreement. After a long day in chambers, the barristers were all out for a night of drink and debauchery.
“Come on, Charles,” Arthur said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Coming,” Charles replied, burying his hands into his pockets. Something caught his eye as he stepped out into the road, however. “One moment!” he called out, stepping toward the golden gleam. He bent down to pick it up.
It was a pocket watch—very expensive, with detailed engraving of feathers across the front. The chain was broken off—as though it had fallen from someone’s pocket. On the back, it was engraved with the initials, J.M.
Charles knew this pocket watch. It was the very one that he had convinced Lord Winterbourne to return to Lord Diggar, back at the Danburys’ ball during the summer. He looked around, trying to see if Lord Diggar was still aro
und. Not seeing him, he put it in his pocket. As soon as he returned home, he would write to Lord Diggar, to let him know that he’d found it.
“Stop! You, there!” A gruff male voice came from behind him.
Charles turned toward it, finding two constables, standing there, scowling at him. They wore their high black caps, and their dark navy uniforms. Silver badges adorned their jackets, glistening in the light of the streetlamps. “Yes?” he asked. He’d drank just enough ale to give him a low buzz. One was older, portly—while the other appeared quite young.
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