by Jane Goodger
“Murder is a hanging offense as well,” Rebecca said, staring at the knife, her blood running cold.
“Yes, but who will know I am the murderer?” He frowned and tapped an index finger against his mouth as if deep in thought. “Let’s see, who should be first?”
Rebecca’s eyes darted to the chamber pot, which both women had used that morning. It was the only object in the room heavy enough to do damage, but it would be impossible for her to reach before she was stopped. Oh, God, she was going to die.
“The duchess is first,” Winters said conversationally. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t wish, Molly. I fear it won’t be pleasant.”
“There’s no need to kill us, Mr. Winters,” Rebecca said, her voice trembling. “I swear, we won’t tell a soul you did this thing. You’ll swear, too, won’t you, Molly?”
“Yes. I swear,” she said quickly, her eyes filling with tears. “I just want to go home and see my mum.”
“I just want to go home and see my mum,” Winters mimicked cruelly. “I am not a stupid man. Now, duchess, come here and kneel before me. I will make this as quick and as painless as possible.”
“You’re insane,” Rebecca said, backing up a step, her heels touching the mattress.
In one quick movement, Winters grabbed her by the hair and pulled ruthlessly, shoving her to the ground in front of him, pulling her head back and exposing her neck.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven—”
“Shut up,” he screamed, jerking her head.
Tears streamed down her face. This was it, she was going to die at the hands of this madman. She would never see Oliver again, never hold their baby. Never see the sunset over the sea. Rebecca closed her eyes and prayed silently as she felt the cold steel against her neck, just under her left ear.
Molly let out a feral scream, and suddenly, Rebecca was free. It seemed impossible. She stood and whipped around to find Molly standing behind Mr. Winters, the chain around the man’s neck. He slashed out with the knife, cutting Molly’s arm, and she dropped the chain, crying out in pain. Rebecca lunged for the chamber pot, lifted the heavy vessel, and swung at Mr. Winter’s head with all her might, the impact jarring her arm. Urine splashed out, covering him as he staggered from the force of the blow. With a strength she hadn’t known she possessed, Rebecca swung again, slamming the chamber pot across his face, leaving a large gash on his cheek. The knife flew from his hand and Molly pounced on it, holding her injured arm close to her body.
Mr. Winters was on the floor on all fours, panting, swaying, blood dripping onto the floor, when Molly plunged the knife into his back. He collapsed onto the cold stone, and Molly stabbed him—again and again—chanting, “Die, die, die,” over and over as she sobbed. The sound of the knife entering his flesh was sickening, and eventually she wore herself out and slumped back to sit on the ground, leaning against the wall, her eyes glazed.
Panting, Rebecca looked from Molly to Mr. Winters’ inert body. “I think you’ve killed him,” she said. Molly looked up, the realization of what she’d done hitting her; it showed in her eyes—the horror, the fear. “I’m glad, Molly. He deserved to die.”
The maid nodded shakily. “He did at that.”
A noise from the hall had both women coming alert, and Molly stood, clutching the bloody knife, ready to take on whoever might be approaching.
“Rebecca, it is I, Oliver.”
Rebecca began sobbing as she went to the door, pulling it open with force, and throwing herself into Oliver’s embrace. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her head against his chest as she sobbed.
The relief Oliver felt was profound. Rebecca was alive and safe and in his arms, where he’d feared she would never be again. He held her tight, wishing he could have protected her from whatever had happened here.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. She shook her head, her head still buried against his chest. Oliver looked over her shoulder to see another woman, her eyes slightly wild, standing in the middle of a small, rough room, a bloody knife in her hand. “Molly?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She had the presence of mind to dip a quick curtsy. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. But he was going to kill us, he was.” Her eyes darted to the left and Oliver followed her gaze to find Mr. Winters face down on the floor, a large pool of dark crimson surrounding his body. It was clear the man was dead.
Oliver gently pushed Rebecca away, wanting proof that she was well, and gasped when he saw her neck was covered with blood.
“My God, Rebecca, you are injured.” Rebecca lifted her hand to her neck, her eyes widening in surprise.
“I didn’t know. Mr. Winters, oh God… He was going to cut my throat. He held the knife to my neck and was about to…”
“I killed him,” Molly said, her chin lifting slightly, as if she were preparing herself for censure.
“I am grateful,” Oliver said, horrified by what he was learning. He had known Mr. Winters was a strict taskmaster, but he never would have believed his guardian was capable of such a heinous act. He couldn’t help but think he was to blame for all of this. If he had taken his rightful place, if he hadn’t hidden away in the tower room all these years, certainly he would have known something was terribly wrong with his house, with the man he’d thought of for years as a father. “And I am more sorry than I can say that this happened to you, Molly. I swear, I will make it up to you as much as I can. You will never want for anything again.”
Oliver turned to Mr. Starke, who’d been standing behind him silently. “Get the footmen to bring the body up to the green parlor and have someone fetch the constable.”
Molly turned pale. “The constable,” she said, her voice a squeak.
“Only to report Mr. Winters’ crime. You will not be harmed in any way. You have my word. Mr. Winters will have to be examined, will need to be buried. We certainly cannot say Mr. Winters stabbed himself in the back, can we?” The woman still looked wary. “I give you my word, Molly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Oliver, Molly saved my life.” Rebecca’s hand trailed along the thin cut on her neck. “If not for her, I would be…” Rebecca withdrew from his arms and ran over to the other woman, embracing her. The two women clung to one another for a long moment before Rebecca turned back to him. “I think Molly should go home before she talks to anyone. Let’s get her freshened up first, then call the carriage ’round to bring her. The constable can go to her.”
“Of course, my love.”
Chapter 13
Nearly a month had passed since Winters’ funeral. Rebecca had not gone, but Oliver had attended, just to be certain he was buried and gone. His memories of Mr. Winters were not all bad. The two had shared many meals together and hours fencing or playing chess in the evenings. To think that all this time, he’d had a half brother. He wondered if it would have made a difference in their relationship had he known that Winters was his father’s bastard.
“The post, sir.” Mr. Davis, promoted to Horncliffe’s butler, stood by his side holding a small bundle in his hand. Oliver had reluctantly given Mr. Starke a tepid letter of recommendation and the man was now working for a far less prestigious family in Coventry. A banker, as far as Oliver knew. Mr. Davis ran his house efficiently and fairly, and it was obvious the other servants admired the man.
“Anything of interest?” Rebecca asked.
They were taking tea together, something they’d begun to do, a homey routine that he had never experienced before and quite liked. Oliver flipped through the correspondence, putting most of the items aside for later. He was finding being a duke was far more work—and far more interesting—than he would have thought. It came as a surprise to him that he enjoyed managing his estate, working with his staff, making certain all was running properly and that his tenants were happy and healthy. He had vague recollections of his father holing up in the study for long h
ours, and as a boy wondering what could possibly engage him for so long. Now he knew.
A post from St. Ives parish caught his eye and he gave Rebecca a quick look.
“What is it?”
He took his spectacles off and held the letter close to his eyes so he could examine the envelop more closely. Taking a bracing breath, he said, “I took the liberty of writing to St. Ives parish to inquire about the ceremony. I know Mr. Winters confessed the marriage was legitimate, but I wanted to be certain. If we were duped, we shall be married posthaste. And if we were not, if we are truly married, I want to open up our London townhouse and throw a wedding reception.”
“I fear no one will come. Even if it is true, everyone now knows I don’t have a drop of noble blood.”
“I am a duke, Rebecca. Dukes throw balls and the ton attends.”
She gave him a skeptical look. He, himself, wasn’t sure of the reception they would receive if he did throw a ball. It didn’t matter at any rate. He would be content living out his days in Horncliffe, sharing every day with his wife. And children, should they be so blessed.
He broke the seal and withdrew two sheets of thick paper, a letter…and a certificate of marriage. He was careful to keep his face blank when he looked up. Rebecca sat there, frozen, seemingly holding her breath.
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“Oh, no.”
“Do you love me?” he repeated.
“You know I do.”
“Then you shall be happy to know you are stuck with me for the rest of your life.” He grinned, unable to keep his features solemn a second longer.
Rebecca’s face lit up. “We’re married?”
“It appears so.”
They both stood and ran into each other’s arms, hugging and laughing like two children who’d just learned they would be getting a pony.
Rebecca pulled back, her brow furrowed. “Why on earth would Mr. Winters have lied?”
“I have no idea and I do not care.” He kissed her softly, then again, more thoroughly. “All I know is that we are married and soon the world will know. I do believe you have your first ball to plan, Your Grace.”
“Oh, dear.”
Oliver laughed and pulled her close. “When I was waiting for your arrival, I never dreamed I would have this.”
“This?”
“This…feeling. Love, I suppose. It’s difficult for me to express what I feel for I have never felt it before.”
Rebecca kissed his cheek softly. “I think it’s called happiness, Oliver.”
“Yes,” he said, gazing down at her beloved face. “I am happy.” He smiled and shook his head.
“Do you have any room for more happiness?” Rebecca asked with grin.
He scowled. “I am not certain. I’m quite full up.”
“I am carrying your baby.”
Oliver took a step back, stumbling a bit in his shock, and Rebecca laughed. “A baby?” He was overjoyed and frightened near to death. What if the babe came out looking like him?
“You look terrified,” she said, clearly stifling a laugh.
“I am terrified. I am to be a father. You are to be a mother.”
“That is how it works.” She gave him a gentle smile and placed one hand on his cheek. “It will be fine, Oliver.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and Rebecca looked at him worriedly. “What’s this?” she asked, brushing her thumb beneath one eye.
He swallowed heavily, overcome with joy. “I do believe that’s my happiness overflowing.”
Epilogue
“Blast it all, how long do babies take?”
If Rebecca screamed one more time, he was going to storm into their room and accost the physician.
“The first can take days.” Eliza, Rebecca’s best friend, had immediately come to Horncliffe when she received the letter from her friend announcing she was to have a baby. Oliver found himself enjoying her company and glad to see Rebecca having a jolly time with her. “My sister took two days.”
“And everything was well?”
“Yes, thank God.”
Her words were not comforting it the least.
Eliza, her long, curly dark hair bundled haphazardly on her head, had not been what Oliver expected. She was the granddaughter of a viscount, well bred and exceedingly aware of propriety, and yet she had a bit of a devil-may-care attitude about her that kept Rebecca laughing for hours. Oliver had listened, a smile on his face, as Eliza had recounted the girls’ many adventures in St. Ives—adventures that might have been landed Eliza in Scotland, living with an aging spinster aunt if her mother had ever discovered them.
“That would have been the end of me,” she’d said dramatically.
Both had stayed with Rebecca during the early phases of delivery, but the midwife had shooed them out when the time grew closer for her to push the baby into this world.
“I don’t know how much more I can bear. To hear her—” He froze when the distinctive sounds of a baby crying reached him. “The baby.”
The two ran down the hall and skidded to a halt outside the room, just as the midwife slid through the door, a smile on her face. “Your Grace, you have a daughter.”
“A daughter,” he said, awe in his voice. “A little girl.” He collected himself and asked, “May I see my wife and daughter now?”
The woman peeked back into the room, then widened the door to allow them access. His eyes went immediately to his wife, who looked lovely even with her hair damp from her exertion and circles under her eyes. To him she had never looked more beautiful. She lay on the bed, propped up by pillows, and smiled gently at him.
“I’d like to call her Claire, after my mother, if that’s all right with you,” she said, then looked down at the little bundle in her arms.
“Claire,” he said softly, and stepped to the side of the bed. He was a father. To a little girl. He was afraid to look at her, so he kissed Rebecca on the forehead, closing his eyes and thanking God that she was well.
“Oliver,” Rebecca said, laughter in her voice. “You can look at her, you know.”
Oliver couldn’t bring himself to drag his gaze away from his wife, who was smiling gently at him. “She’s beautiful.”
He furrowed his brows, still unwilling to look. “Is she…”
“She has red hair. Just like me. And a stubborn little chin, just like you.”
He sat down at the edge of the bed, his legs suddenly unable to hold him up, and finally looked at the red-faced baby tucked against his wife. Her hair was red. Bright and beautiful. “I feared—”
“I know you did. But she is beautiful. And if she had been born like you, she would have been just as beautiful. And we would have loved her just the same. Maybe even more.”
Oliver, his eyes welling with tears, held out his index finger to touch his daughter’s little fist, and she immediately grasped it and held on with surprising strength for one so small. “She likes me,” he said with a light chuckle.
“Of course she does.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I do believe I will be unable to allow any man to court her.”
This caused Rebecca to laugh out loud. “Unless she finds someone like her father.”
“That would be me,” Oliver said. He’d thought he’d found joy before, but realized nothing could compare to this, to seeing his wife hold their child, to listening to the sweet little sounds his daughter made. To knowing they had created something so beautiful. It was world-altering.
“I’ve never been part of a family before. I hope I do it right.”
“You were never a husband before and you did that right.”
“I want to…” He had to stop, for unaccustomed emotions were raging inside him. “I want to be the sort of father she’ll be proud of.”
“Oh, Oliver, you will be. You
already are. You are not the man I met when I first arrived at Horncliffe Manor. You are the man your father would have wanted you to become.”
Her words affected him profoundly. “With you by my side, and my little Claire, I do believe I could be.”
He leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter’s head, her soft, soft hair, feeling a sense of such fierce protectiveness, it was stunning. This moment would stay with him forever—the moment he realized he was worthy of such happiness and worthy of finding love.
Don’t miss any of the Brides of St. Ives!
She’s one groom away from true love . . .
THE BAD LUCK BRIDE
Jane Goodger
“Goodger writes romances that touch readers’ hearts and bring a smile to their day.”
--RT Book Reviews
Welcome to St. Ives, the charming seaside town where even a down-on-her luck bride might find her way back to love . . .
As if being left at the altar for the third time isn’t bad enough, Lady Alice Hubbard has now been dubbed “The Bad Luck Bride” by the London newspapers. Defeated, she returns to her family’s estate in St. Ives, resolved to a future as a doting spinster. After all, a lady with her record of marital mishaps knows better than to dream of happily-ever-after. But then Alice never expects to see Henderson Southwell again. Her beloved brother’s best friend disappeared from her life soon after her brother’s death. Until now…
Alice is just as achingly beautiful as Henderson remembers. And just as forbidden. For the notorious ladies’ man made one last promise to Alice’s brother before he died—and that was never to pursue her. But one glimpse of Alice’s sorrow and Henderson feels a powerful urge to put the light back in her lovely eyes, one lingering kiss at a time. Even if it means falling in love with the one woman he can never call his bride . . .
