The Dark Regent

by Catherine Lloyd

  Fawn could not help but wonder about Captain Crispin Wolfe. In truth, it was rare that he was far from her thoughts. This was the closest she’d come to learning about him in many months.

  The temptation was almost too much. Fawn fought a tense battle not to run up to the foursome and ask after their mutual friend. An act that would be the death of her for Matron would have her confined to the workhouse if she so much as breathed on gentry.

  The group moved on without once looking her way and soon passed out of sight. The opportunity was gone.

  In the weeks that followed her abrupt exit from Lady Coleridge’s townhouse, when the shock was still fresh, Fawn had debated seeking Crispin out and asking for his help. She’d managed to resist and was glad she did for she never suffered the sting of that particular humiliation.

  In a burst of memory, she remembered Crispin saying she reminded him of little Nell from The Old Curiosity Shop. How eerily accurate his vision had proven to be.

  In her darkest moments she would trick herself into believing he still loved her, needing the temporary comfort the delusion offered. And then she would recall their last conversation. Crispin’s actions before she fell in love with him, and his cruel rejection of her after he’d ruined her, brought Fawn back to reality. His only kindness had been in confessing the truth about himself and for that reason she could forgive him.

  Oddly, in the months that followed, the lower she fell, the easier she found it to cope. Wandering the streets of London, staring into shop windows that were filled with food and drink was the worst. Arrival at the Whitechapel Workhouse was not bad by comparison. It was only the last indignity in a long line of indignities and frankly, she found it a bit of a relief to finally hit bottom.

  Fawn returned to her work. Captain Wolfe was doubtless doing just fine. She was becoming accustomed to the ways of men. A scab was forming over her heart and a scar had sealed her soul. Getting this square of pavement bright white was her only concern now. Knowing where Crispin was, or what had become of him, would not change anything for her.

  A cough exploded from her chest. Fawn quickly muffled it with her arm but a spot of blood fell to the pavement. She scrubbed it off, looking over her shoulder at Matron, hoping she didn’t notice.

  §

  THE WINDOWS of Drake’s mansion spilled light from every floor. Another meeting of the Society was in full swing. Crispin drew his cloak about him against the rain. Dragging his defective leg, he limped to the front door, not bothering to ring, but boldly entered and crossed without pause to the drawing room doors.

  Drake must’ve got hold of her somehow, he thought as he flung them open.

  The guests spilled into the middle of the room in an orgy of carnality and sound. Lord Drake was seated, his hands squeezing a girl’s tender buttocks. Her legs were splayed over his member that jutted up like a staff. Her dark hair flowed unbound down her back—the image of Fawn.

  “Drake!”

  The command sucked the air out of the room. No one made a sound. Drake lifted his eyes and Crispin saw with relief that the girl about to be defiled by his lordship was not Fawn.

  All eyes were on him. Crispin knew how he must appear to them, a ridiculous figure in his worn black riding cloak and frayed cuffs, pocked with rain, his shaggy hair dripping water into his furious eyes. Fury coiled every muscle in his body.

  “Captain Wolfe, as I live and breathe! Come in, come in! What a welcome surprise, my friend, you’re just in time. I am about to make a woman of this delectable virgin. Remove that wet cloak and join us. I believe Gillian is somewhere about.”

  “I haven’t come to see Lady Coleridge. Where is Fawn—what have you done with her?” His voice boomed.

  Drake’s brows knit together. “How the blazes should I know where Miss Heathcote is? I’ve not clapped eyes on your niece in five months at least. I thought you’d spirited her away to Hawkcliffe Hall.”

  Crispin slumped against the door frame, relieved and at the same time alarmed. As much as he had dreaded finding her here, he now had no idea where she could be.

  Drake slid the girl off his lap and pulled on his silk robe, scrutinizing his former friend with caution. “Speaking of missing friends—I’d wondered where you got to, Wolfe. You were released from prison months ago. I expected you to turn up long before this.”

  “I returned to Hawkcliffe Hall after settling Jocelyn’s estate. I wrote Corporal Jameson in care of his commander to inform Fawn she would be coming into a small inheritance and to supply me with an address. When there was no reply, I wrote again. There was still no reply from the bastard so I’ve returned to London to speak to her in person.”

  “And you came here? How remarkable.”

  “I stopped at Lady Coleridge’s townhouse first, thinking she would know where Jameson had taken his wife and I was directed here by her manservant. Naturally I assumed the worst.”

  “Naturally,” Drake observed with good humor. “Lady Coleridge, I believe you had better come forward. Wolfe is in search of a Fawn.”

  The assembly tittered at the jest and there was a general rustling of bodies before Gillian emerged from the shadows.

  “Hello, Crispin. How are you?”

  Their marriage had not come off when Wolfe’s acquittal hit a rough patch. Scotland Yard had challenged the evidence of the laudanum bottle until Jocelyn’s doctor could confirm the prescription—a simple enough task—if the doctor was not in fear of his reputation. He lied under oath, claiming he’d never given Mrs. Heathcote laudanum and Wolfe was remanded for trial.

  It was a complicated mess that took some months to resolve. The case was eventually thrown out of court and Wolfe was cleared of all charges, but the damage had been done. Before the trial, Gillian asked to be released from their engagement. Everyone assumed Wolfe was for the noose, but he surprised them all, returning Phoenix-like from the ashes, lame but richer than ever.

  Wolfe ignored the pleasantry and addressed Gillian coldly. “Where is Corporal Jameson? Why does he not answer my letters?”

  Gillian managed to appear puzzled. “Why would you write Wilfred? I really don’t see what my cousin has to do with you or your niece, Crispin.”

  Wolfe’s heart blackened and for a moment he thought he might strike her. “Your cousin was expected to marry Fawn—as you well know since you arranged their engagement,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  Gillian smiled and adopted a conciliatory tone. “Oh dear, I thought you knew. Fawn ended their friendship the same day she left my home. It was a clean break. Wilfred is now happily married to Miss Mary Ellis—as she was called three months ago. She is now Mrs. Wilfred Jameson.”

  A vein pulsed in his temple. The air was stifling. “Then where is Fawn? Where is she, goddamn it!”

  “I don’t know and that’s the truth! She was offered living accommodations and the security and friendship of the Society—and she refused it all. She left my house the day she visited you in the Royal Constabulary and I have not seen her since.”

  Crispin bit the inside of his mouth to keep from lashing her with insults. He used to find her cold-blooded ability to lie under pressure admirable. Now it just disgusted him.

  “Truly, I don’t know what became of Fawn after she left my house. I did all I could for her. She refused to give Wilfred the time he needed to consider a proposal, and then she rejected my offer to help her. She behaved most abominably. Most ungratefully.”

  “What was your offer, precisely?”

  Gillian had the decency to look mildly conscience-stricken. “Mrs. Rice offered her a room and Lord Drake made a wonderful offer. He asked her to be his mistress until she turned twenty-one.”

  Lord Drake shrugged. “Do not expect me to apologize, Wolfe. Miss Heathcote also refused to join Mrs. Rice’s household, even though she would have only one client—me.”

  Crispin swung his fist at Drake’s face, channelling all the rage, worry, fear and pain he’d suffered these past five months into the blow.
Drake lifted his hands to defend himself just a hair too late. His lordship fell to the floor when Crispin’s fist connected with his jaw. Blood spurted from his split lip.

  Gillian screamed. “Have you gone mad? Lord Drake is your friend! He has done nothing to deserve this violence. Perhaps you have been shut up with criminals for too long, Wolfe—civilized people do not smash one another over whores. I know better than anyone what Fawn did with you at Hawkcliffe Hall. My cousin was right to turn his back on her. A brothel was all she was good for after I told him I found her in your bed.”

  Crispin’s blood roared to his temples. “This was your revenge. To drive her away, to force her into the streets all the while claiming to be her friend!”

  “As she claimed to be mine.”

  She sidled up beside him and took his bruised hand. Gillian raised it to her lips and kissed it. “Let us not quarrel. Your niece is gone, we don’t know where, and it is certain you will never find her. But you are free now and all is forgiven! Your rightful place is here in this assembly of London’s elite because you are one of us, Captain Wolfe, master of Hawkcliffe Hall. Your social status is secured. Come now, shake hands. Fawn has made her choice. Do not allow yourself to be dragged down to the gutter where she surely is by now.”

  Crispin’s vision blurred as he gazed around the room at the people he knew could elevate him and feed his ambitions for Hawkcliffe Hall. The hunger he had as the bastard son of Archibald Gleason would at last be slaked. His mother’s memory would be cleared of blemish. No more battles to be fought. No more indignities to endure at the whim of a jealous spiteful half-sister. Everything he craved was in his grasp.

  Except for one very necessary part of his being and he would not give that part up for anything.

  “Go to hell,” he spat at Lady Coleridge.

  And then turned on his heel and plunged out into the rain.

  §

  One Month Later

  THE COUGH racked her body, try as she might to stifle it. Matron passed her table with a measured step, looking for blood. The dry roll of bread and yellow gruel were mercifully blood-free.

  “I’m sorry, Matron,” Fawn said with a smile. Her cheeks felt hot and she worried her eyes were too bright—the tell-tale signs of fever. “I am quite well—I’ve only managed to choke on a bit of bread.”

  The bones in her hands and wrists were etched in sharp relief under her pale skin. Hands that had once been soft and pink were now chapped and red. Nevertheless, her clothes were clean and her hair was coiled in a neat bun at the back of her head. Slovenliness was not tolerated in the Workhouse.

  Or illness.

  She dabbed at her mouth and found blood in her spittle. The disease was advancing rapidly. Soon she wouldn’t be able to hide it from the matrons on the ward. If she was sent to the sick ward she would be dead within the week.

  The fight left her body in that moment. Death was preferable to the battle to stay alive. She could not hold on any longer. Her small frame had been punished by disease, exhaustion and hunger but it was hopelessness that was destroying her spirit.

  Fawn’s shoulders rounded and she dropped her head to the table.

  “Sit up,” her tablemate whispered. “She’s coming back.”

  “I can’t ... leave me alone ... let me rest....”

  The girl, a bullying redhead as tough as nails, grabbed Fawn by the hair and pulled her upright. “You are not dead yet, Heathcote but you soon will be if you do not sit up! She’s coming this way!”

  “Heathcote! You have a visitor. Get to your feet and follow me and no nonsense mind you.”

  Fawn gazed at the woman with glassy eyes. “A visitor? I don’t know anybody. What name did the visitor give?”

  “He didn’t offer his name and I did not ask. The gentleman is likely a patron of Whitechapel and means to interview you for a position. Straighten your shoulders and smile, young lady. You could land yourself a pretty post in a fine house before the day is out.”

  She was ushered into a smaller room where inmates met with family members on Sundays. Fawn had never had a visitor before. This was the first time she’d been invited to the sunlit room. A gentleman stood with his back to her. As soon as Fawn saw the breadth of his shoulders in the black cloak, her breath caught in the back of her throat.

  It could not be. It was not him.

  The man turned and faced her with brilliant sapphire eyes. His hair was longer and he walked with a limp, but her mysterious visitor most definitely was Captain Wolfe.

  “Captain.” She swayed a little, dizzied by the sight of him. “This is a welcome surprise.”

  His noble face crumpled with pity for an instant. From the looseness of her gown, Fawn knew that she was much thinner than the last time he saw her. The illness must show in her face as well.

  “I am not the rose you remember,” she said with a tremulous smile. “But I assure you, I am quite well. What can I do for you, sir?”

  Fawn privately vowed if he asked her to work in Lady Gillian’s house as their maid, she would turn him down. No matter how kindly he meant it, dying at Whitechapel would be kinder.

  Crispin cleared his throat. Seeing her at last, so thin and worn, swelled his heart and alarmed him in the same moment. He had brutally pushed her away; regaining her trust would be no easy matter. Even in her weakened state he could see the determination in Fawn’s eye to be civil and no more.

  “I wrote Jameson and when he didn’t reply, I came to London to find you. You are not married.”

  “No. At Wilfred’s request, we parted. Corporal Jameson is a fine man. He deserved to be loved for himself alone. What was it you needed from him?”

  “Your aunt’s estate has been settled. An income of five hundred pounds a year has been settled on you for the duration of your life. The funds are waiting for you in the Bank of England. You are an independent woman, Fawn. A woman of means.”

  She paled and he saw her hand reach out to the chair to steady herself.

  “I am much obliged to you, sir. I don’t know how to repay your kindness.”

  The tension in his chest almost throttled him. It was agony to stand so far apart from her.

  “I was anything but kind the last time we spoke. My reasons for doing so at the time were sound—or so I thought.”

  “You don’t love me,” she interrupted in a clear voice. “That was your reason. I understand. There is no need to explain and there is nothing to forgive. I played my part in what happened between us. Please, there is no need to prolong your stay out of guilt. I am quite content and your wife will be wondering what is keeping you. I missed your wedding announcement in the papers. Allow me to wish you joy, sir. I am grateful for what you have done for me but you must excuse me. I have to return to my work.”

  Crispin found his voice. “I am not married. Gillian Coleridge asked for her freedom when I was sent down for trial. I thought you knew—all these months I thought you were safely married to Jameson. Laleham made a hell of a mess of everything. The charge against me was dropped only eight weeks ago. I returned to Hawkcliffe Hall, thinking I’d live out the rest of my days in solitude. But when my letters to Jameson were returned unanswered, I came in search of you. I could kill the bastard for allowing this to happen! For the past month, I’ve been searching every workhouse in London praying I’d find you.”

  “You are not married...?” Fawn staggered and reached for a chair to sit. Crispin lunged across the room and lifted her up in his arms.

  “You are ill. I swear to God, if anything happens to you, I’ll tear Jameson apart!”

  His voice sounded desperate, raw, and despite her weakened state, Fawn felt a thrill of reviving life go through her.

  “I am well. I am well. I can live now. I can go on. You didn’t forget me....”

  Darkness closed around her. The room ceased to spin and warmth spread through her limbs that brought with it such peace.

  Such peace....

  Fawn slipped into unconsciousness an
d did not hear Crispin’s frantic shouts for help.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MOLLY MCGUIRE ran along the rugged muddy track to Hawkcliffe Hall as fast as she dared.

  “Oh sir!” The girl gasped as she fell through the door. “Beg pardon, Master Wolfe, I came as fast as I could. The doctor will be along as soon as he finishes delivering Mrs. Farley’s baby. He couldn’t come any sooner. Is it your leg troubling you again, sir?”

  Molly’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “Oh sweet mercy! Miss Fawn. What’s happened to her?”

  Crispin was already moving to the staircase with Fawn in his arms, carrying her with his awkward limp, pain creasing his face.

  “She is sedated to help her sleep. It was a near thing but she’ll live. The London physician said I got to her in time, but the next twenty-four hours are critical. She needs fresh sea air, a clean bed and round the clock nursing. Fetch me the whiskey from the sideboard. Do you know the one I mean?”

  Molly bobbed her head and flew down the hall, quivering with excitement. The shock of seeing the master carrying the lifeless girl had already subsided. She was eager to find out what terrible thing had happened. She knew a little of the story from her young man, Constable Martin. Through an extraordinary piece of luck, Captain Wolfe had been cleared of the murder charge. And by the look of it, it was a stroke of luck for Miss Fawn as well. God only knows what happened to the girl living among those London society people.

  Captain Wolfe laid Miss Heathcote on the bed in the master bedchamber. The embers in the grate were still glowing; it took little effort to kindle a blaze. The master removed the young lady’s shoes and stockings that were shockingly shabby—not at all like the clothes Miss Fawn had on when she left Hawkcliffe Hall.