“Or until Scotland Yard decides to shackle me and cast me into prison,” she countered bitterly. “I will not remain here.”
“Yes,” the duchess argued firmly, “you will. As your fellow countrywoman, I insist upon it. You must trust me to look after you on that count alone. But if nothing else, let me assure you we have a good deal more in common than you might suppose. I am your ally, Miss McKenna, like it or not.”
“Not,” she decided. “I cannot trust anyone after all the lies I have been told.”
Hazel grasped her hand then, meeting Johanna’s gaze. “I know of three people you can trust with your life, Miss McKenna. Myself, my husband, and most of all, Winchelsea. Believe what you may of him, but know that I have never met a finer gentleman than he. He is honorable, noble, and good.”
She did not want to believe this.
Could not.
For she had the evidence to suggest otherwise.
“Do you deny he works for the Home Office?” she demanded.
Hazel shook her head. “No.”
“And do you deny that he was watching me?” she asked. “That he knew about my connections to Drummond before he ever met me?”
“No,” Hazel said gently. “But I also cannot deny the way he has been protecting you, tending to you, and worrying over you since yesterday. Actions do not lie even when words may seem to deceive and confuse us, Miss McKenna. Winchelsea is in love with you, and he is doing his best to keep you safe.”
She could not bear to believe it.
Did not dare.
Her heart could not sustain one more blow from him. Already, she had given him so much. Indeed, she had given him everything. Her heart, her body, her trust.
“I wish I could believe you,” she whispered, lost in pain—physical warring with emotional. “But I cannot.”
“You cannot or you will not?” Hazel asked her shrewdly. “Whatever happened between you and Winchelsea, no one knows but the two of you. And that must be sorted out by you both accordingly. All I know is that I have an exhausted duke down the hall who will have my hide if I do not alert him to the fact that you are awake.”
“Do not tell him,” she begged, desperation eclipsing every other emotion.
Because if she had to face him now, after everything, she was not certain she could be strong enough. She was not sure she could resist him as she must.
“One way or another, you must see him, Miss McKenna,” Hazel said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “But please know you are safe and welcome here at Lark House. If you will excuse me, I must send for the doctor so he can have a look at you now that you are awake.”
With those parting words, the duchess rose to her commanding height and swept from the room with a regal elegance that belied her dress. For once she had stood, Johanna noted Hazel was wearing billowing trousers beneath her bodice. It had not been a gown she wore after all.
Here was another lesson that, like so many other things in life, all was not always as it seemed. But the fear inside her would not abate. And Johanna was not willing to give Felix the benefit of her doubt.
Instead, she would cling to her rage.
“How dare you come in here, Your Grace?” Johanna demanded, her voice vibrating with quiet fury.
The Duchess of Arden had warned him, of course, that the woman he loved had no wish to see him. That she had accused him of lying to her, which he had. That she had said he was responsible for her arrest by the CID, which he was. That she claimed she was not his betrothed at all.
Which she most decidedly—and to his great consternation—was not.
Thankfully, the clout he possessed within the Home Office had been enough to grant her a reprieve in the wake of the bombing and to keep her from the dank walls of a prison cell. He would do everything in his power to see that she remained free. And safe.
Everything.
Because he loved her.
God, how he loved the woman before him, the one spitting rancor and fire from her lips and her eyes. The one looking upon him now as if he were a lowly worm who had dared to cross her path.
She was not wrong in that assessment. For he felt like a worm for keeping the truth from her. He had not left her side from the time she had been pulled from the rubble of the Scotland Yard offices, bleeding from the head and insensate, and a few hours before when the duchess had demanded he seek a respite.
It had only been the need to stay strong for Johanna which had prompted him to retire to a guest chamber and attempt to nap. But sleep had not been forthcoming. He had lain in the bed, thinking of her, worrying over her.
Wondering when she would wake.
Wondering if she would wake.
“How do you feel?” he asked her instead of answering her brutal query.
She was wan, a bandage wrapped around her head, and scratches on her cheeks. But she had never looked more beautiful to him than she did then. She was alive. Awake and alive, thank God.
She was also angry with him, it was clear. What Ravenhurst had revealed to her remained to be seen. But he suspected it was everything, and in damning detail.
“I feel as if a roof fell upon my head,” she said, still cold and pale, so unlike the laughing, vibrant, openhearted woman he had come to know. “And as if the man I believed loved me betrayed me in the cruelest fashion possible.”
That hit him where he deserved it. With the force of a blow. But she could not be further from the truth.
“I do love you,” he said, moving closer, drawn to her as a magnet though she was furious with him.
He needed to touch her. To prove to himself that she was real. The fear of losing her had been so tremendous, it had almost broken him. It had only been thoughts of Verity and of needing to see Johanna through this time of trial which had kept him going.
“Do not dare to mock me with more of your lies,” she said, her voice bearing the lash and sting of a whip.
“I would never lie to you about the way I feel for you, Johanna,” he said, closing the rest of the distance between them and folding himself into the chair at her bedside where he had spent so many listless, worried hours.
“What would you lie to me about?” she asked, her tone tart. Unforgiving and icy. “Everything else?”
“No,” he denied, clenching his fists to keep from touching her. Seeing her alive, her face etched with pain, her complexion ashen, filled him with such an immense sense of relief, that it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. Simply holding her to him, feeling the reassuring beat of her heart against his chest.
“Then you deny lying to me about who you were from the moment we met?”
Her voice was weakening, and he could plainly see the strain in her countenance. She had suffered a blow to the head when the Scotland Yard offices had come crashing down in the wake of the bombing. And numerous other injuries as well.
“You are unwell, Johanna,” he said, hoping she would let the matter rest until she was at least somewhat healed. “Let us speak about this another day. For now, the most important thing is that you are awake. The doctor will examine you when he arrives, and I expect he will order some broth and rest.”
How he wished his only concern was her welfare and recovery from the traumatic injuries she had sustained. But in truth, it was only a small part of the battle in this massive war they fought. He needed to keep her from prison, to keep her safe from her brother’s wrath, to convince her she could believe in him… The list was as daunting as it was endless.
“I am unwell, it is true,” she said, “but it is because of you, Your Grace. How dare you tell anyone that I am your betrothed?”
“I proposed to you,” he reminded her.
“I denied you,” she countered, “and then, I was hauled off to prison.”
“I am sorry for that.” God, how very sorry he was. He blamed himself for the way everything had unfolded. “If I had possessed an inkling of how quickly it would have happened—”
“You would have made certain to coz
en me into marrying you so I was well and truly trapped?” she interrupted. “Was that your plan all along, Winchelsea? To stop my brother at any cost? Did I ever mean anything to you at all? Was it all a farce? Was everything we shared a lie? Did you seduce me so you could get to him?”
“I never had a plan when it came to you,” he admitted, the words torn from him. “I was meant to, Johanna, but nothing has happened the way I expected it would, from the moment I first met you. Because that night, I met a woman I admired. A woman who was not just beautiful, but daring and bold. One who looked down her nose at me and told me no when I had expected her to say yes.”
“I do not believe you,” she said, hurt sparkling in her brilliant-blue gaze.
He did not expect her to.
He did not deserve her trust, and he knew it.
He had let her down in so many ways.
“Here is the truth, Johanna,” he said, needing to explain himself even if she had no wish to hear it and even if she still rejected him at the end. “I have spent the last few years of my life devoted to my service to the Home Office. When dynamite began to be planted throughout England and when innocent civilians were wounded and hurt, I was compelled to do my part. I became involved in plans to capture your brother, using you as a lure. At the time, it was believed you were McKenna’s mistress. The supposition was that you would possess knowledge of him better than anyone.”
“And that is why you approached me that first night,” she guessed.
“That is why you were offered the tour at the Crown and Thorn,” he added. “I asked Theo to bring you here. In truth, your talent is undeniable and renowned, and Theo would have made you an offer regardless of my request.”
She seemed to shrink away from him in the bed. “You knew, all along. You do not deny it. You knew who I was, and you intended to use me.”
“I knew you were connected to McKenna,” he corrected her. “I had no inkling you were his sister until you divulged that information to me. Nor did I know you had smuggled dynamite and correspondence here. But from the start, before I realized you had never been McKenna’s mistress and that you possessed a heart that was true and good, I was inexplicably drawn to you. My attraction to you and my admiration for you were never feigned, Johanna. Please believe that. Nor was my love. Nor is my love.”
Her lips tightened. “I wish I could believe anything you tell me, Your Grace, but I cannot.”
“Will you not call me Felix?” he asked, hating the wall she had put up between them.
A wall of formality.
A wall of his own making, it was true.
He had been wrong, so wrong, and he knew that now. He had failed her on so many fronts. It was his fault she had been arrested, his fault she had been in the offices of Scotland Yard when the Fenian bomb laid in the street outside had exploded.
“To speak so familiarly suggests a relationship we do not have, Your Grace,” she denied. “Indeed, we do not have a relationship at all.”
Her words filled him with a new anguish. He had not lost her in the explosion, and yet, he was losing her anyway. He felt it as surely as he felt the chair beneath him. She was slipping away before his eyes. Retreating to a place deep inside herself. A place where he could not reach her. And he had forced her into it.
“I planned to tell you everything,” he told her. “I would have told you before, but everything was happening so suddenly.”
“How convenient for you to believe that,” she snapped. “You had ample opportunities to tell me the truth. You had days upon days to tell me. But you knew if you had, I would have never willingly allowed you into my bed.”
She was right.
He could have told her.
He should have told her.
“The fear of losing you kept me from telling you,” he said, being bitterly honest now. “I knew I had to, but I also knew I was falling in love with you. The moment just never seemed right. The risk was too great. I am a selfish fool when it comes to you, Johanna. An utter blockhead, and that is the undeniable truth.”
“You lost me anyway,” she told him, the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Please go now, and leave me in peace. I am weary and in pain, and I should like to rest before your police arrive to arrest me again.”
Just the thought of the manacles being slapped on her wrists, watching her be led away from him, was enough to fill him with impotent rage all over again.
“You will not be arrested again, Johanna,” he vowed. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Any more than you had a say about it the first time?” she asked.
“I do not blame you for not trusting me,” he said, “but I am determined to make this right however I can. You do not deserve to be imprisoned for your brother’s sins. Do you not see, Johanna? That is why you must marry me.”
A tear trailed down her cheek. “I will not marry you, Your Grace. Not even to save myself. Go now. I am tired, and I do not want to look upon you for a moment more. It hurts too much.”
He could have said the same. He hated himself for the suffering she had endured. For every hurt he had caused her.
“Think of me what you will,” he said then, his voice low with sentiment. “But know that there is one thing I have never lied to you about, and that is loving you.”
“Just go,” she whispered, looking away from him. “Leave me, Winchelsea.”
Swallowing against a knot of his own tears, he rose, offering her a bow. “The Duke and Duchess of Arden will keep you safe here, for as long as you need. I suggest you remain, for your own good.”
Knowing her, she would attempt to flee the moment he left the chamber.
“What I do or do not do is no longer your concern, Your Grace,” she said, her voice cold with finality. “You lost that right.”
He had lost so much more than that.
As he left the chamber and the woman he loved behind, he knew he had to find a way to keep her safe. No matter the cost.
Chapter Sixteen
Felix faced the chief investigator of the Scotland Yard Criminal Investigation Department. Like Johanna, Commissioner Vincent Ravenhurst had been injured in the Scotland Yard office bombing. Unlike her, however, he had not suffered a blow to the head.
Felix could not help but to think it rather a pity as he faced his nemesis now.
“What are you doing here, Winchelsea?” Ravenhurst asked.
He wore his left arm in a sling, and aside from some abrasions on his face, he looked hale and hearty as ever.
“I am here to aid in the investigation,” he said calmly, knowing that what he was about to do would require every bit of sangfroid he possessed.
“The investigation into your slattern?” the Commissioner asked with a smirk.
It took all his control to keep from rising and planting his fist in the man’s teeth.
“I do not have a slattern, Commissioner,” he corrected. “The investigation I speak of is the one concerning lignin dynamite along with papers belonging to Drummond McKenna, the American Fenian who so recently orchestrated the bombings at the Praed Street and Charing Cross stations.”
“Ah, yes,” Ravenhurst said. “Mr. Drummond McKenna, who happens to also be the brother of your slattern.”
“There is no need to debase Miss McKenna,” he gritted, allowing the Commissioner to get beneath his skin in spite of his best efforts not to. “She has no bearing upon this conversation, aside from the fact that she was wrongfully detained by your forces.”
“I am not debasing her, Winchelsea, merely speaking plainly to you.” Ravenhurst’s eyes were hard, gleaming. He was a man intent upon his prey.
And his prey was Johanna.
But Felix was not going to allow that to happen.
Not on his watch.
Not ever.
“You have bedded her, have you not?” Ravenhurst asked. “I cannot blame you. She is a prime piece. I thought about having a go at her myself when I arrest her next. What do you think?”
<
br /> He thought he was going to kill the Commissioner of the CID. That is what he thought. He clenched his jaw so hard, pain spiked through his skull.
“I have done nothing untoward with Miss McKenna, and I will thank you to speak of her in a respectful manner,” he growled. “I came to you today to do you the courtesy of informing you that I plan to go above you, directly to the Home Secretary.”
“Oh? And you plan to tell him what?” The smirk was back in place now. “That you have been fucking a Fenian actress who smuggled dynamite into Liverpool? That would be rich, Winchelsea.”
Looking pleased with himself, Ravenhurst lit a pipe and stuffed it into his mouth, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air. The urge to deliver a drubbing to another man had never been stronger, burning to a seething crescendo inside Felix. It was only with the greatest exertion of his rigid control that he remained calm.
“I will tell him you are subverting the authority of the Home Office,” he countered. “That you are conducting witch hunts involving innocent women. That you have been planting evidence upon suspected Fenians so you have cause to arrest them.”
The last was information he had obtained directly from Arden, who had himself been pursuing an investigation into Ravenhurst’s conduct. The recent CID arrest of one Irishman named John Tierney had been predicated upon the planting of evidence at his home in the form of nitroglycerine and explosive Atlas powder buried in the yard.
Ravenhurst looked distinctly less smug now. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“Does the name John Tierney mean anything to you?” Felix asked, warming to his cause now that the tables had been so distinctly turned.
“Tierney was charged with conspiracy to cause an explosion,” the Commissioner clipped. “He was found to be in possession of dynamite at the time of his arrest.”
“Dynamite which was given to him by your own undercover agents,” Felix accused. “The evidence against Tierney was manufactured. When you cannot find dynamitards, you make them yourself, is that not true?”
“Tierney is a known Fenian,” Ravenhurst argued. “The case in his possession on his arrest was his own.”
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