He advanced, hating that he had to hobble-step like a cripple to close the distance between them. By the time he reached her, she’d risen to her feet.
“Why?” The question ripped ragged past his lips, and it took all he had and then some to keep from shouting. “Why let me bear the blame for your crime? Have you no soul whatsoever?”
She wilted against the wall, shoring herself up with a hand flat against it. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Margaret Dosett. Daisy Lee.” He spit out the names like curses and shoved the jewels in her face. “Or is it more fitting I should call you thief?”
A low growl rumbled in the dog’s throat as the animal stationed his body between them. Oliver hitched back a step—but only one. He’d see this through come teeth marks or not.
“I am many things, sir, but I am no thief.” Her spine stiffened to a ramrod, and she shot out her open palm. “That necklace is mine, and I will thank you to hand it over at once.”
“Sweet merciful heavens, woman, but you are a bold one!” Bitter laughter bubbled up to his throat—the sort he’d heard one too many times leaching out from behind locked doors. This was insane. Shameless, even. He jammed the jewels—no, the evidence—into his pocket.
The woman narrowed her eyes, her voice coming out in breathy puffs. “Who are you?”
“Someone you never should have thought to cross.” Sighing, he plowed a hand through his hair, not heeding—and even welcoming—the stinging pain on his forehead when he accidentally brushed against his gash. “I am Oliver Ward, member of the House of Commons and wrongly convicted for the theft of the jewels you stole.”
The barest flicker of recognition lit in her gaze, then she shook her head. “I don’t understand, and clearly you do not either. That necklace is nothing but a bit of paste and metal made to look genuine. Why would you be condemned for rubies that are not real?”
Her brown eyes blinked, confused, like a rabbit staring down the muzzle of a rifle and wondering if she ought to run or freeze until the trouble went away. For a fraction of a second, his heart wrenched. Did she speak truth? Were the jewels in his pocket truly not genuine, and he was blaming an innocent woman? But… no. His lips twisted into a wry grin. How easy it was to fall victim to the wiles of an accomplished stage performer.
“A very pretty act, miss, but an act all the same.” He snorted. How many other men had she lied to so prettily? “Of all those I’ve blamed these past months, never once did I think to accuse you. I daresay you duped us all. I can’t wait to see their faces when this comes to light, Corbin’s especially.”
The woman swayed, and despite the growling dog and duplicity of the woman herself, Oliver reached for her, propping her up as best he could. A full-out swoon might take them both down, but thief or not, she had cared for him when he’d been in need. He could do no less.
Hardly a breath later, she rallied and pulled away from his touch. “If you seriously think I am to blame, why did you not call out to Constable Barrow when he was here?”
“Pah!” That unrighteous hellhound? The woman could have no idea. “Barrow would’ve shot first and listened later—and then not believed a word I might say. No, I will bring you to justice myself and see you convicted of the crime for which you are clearly guilty.”
Her chin jutted out, her proud little nostrils flaring. “The only crime I know of is your harsh accusation against me. That gown is mine, as are the faux jewels, made for my last performance. I am the rightful owner. But if that worthless necklace means so much to you, take it. Take it and leave! You’ll find my pony in the stable. Send him back with a boy.” Looking past his shoulder, she called out, “Nora!”
“If you think I’m leaving without you, madam, you are sorely mistaken.” He stared her down.
She held his gaze, unflinching. “I am not going anywhere.”
The mettle of the woman! Astounding. Though admittedly, one would have to be spirited to buck convention and lead such a public life… which birthed a whole new question. Besides the value of the necklace, what had driven her to forsake a wildly popular operatic career? As precious as the jewels were, the amount once sold wouldn’t support her for the rest of her life, especially not in the style to which she was surely accustomed. No, something else must’ve prodded this brown-eyed woman to run off to the wilds of a moor.
But what?
At his back, footsteps tapped down the corridor and entered the hall, drawing Margaret Dosett—Daisy Lee—or whoever she truly was to attention. “Nora, see Mr. Ward to the stable. He may have use of Black Jack, nothing more.”
He gaped. Did she really think she’d get off so easily? Grabbing her arm, he guided her away from the stairs and down the opposite passageway, towards the sitting room, and steeled himself for a bite to his backside from the dog. Surprisingly, the animal merely followed, albeit growling all the way.
“Let me go!” She wrenched sideways.
“Not until we settle this.” He held tight, though at the cost of a misstep, putting pressure on his injured ankle. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his brow, and he bit back a groan.
“Settle what?” She shot him a sharp glance—one that could cleave flesh from bone.
Without a word, he led her over to a brilliant beam of sunshine streaming in through the window. Releasing the woman, he retrieved the necklace, then held the largest jewel up to the light, angling it one way. Then another. Then… there. Near the bottom of the teardrop shape, a flaw. A small one, but a darkened, dull spot nonetheless.
Still holding the thing aloft, he edged aside, making space for the woman. “Take a look. See?”
She frowned at him first, then reluctantly peered at the gem. “What?”
“The flaw on the bottom, the dark spot. Perfection is a sure sign of paste, and this one is clearly marred.”
She backed away, eyeing him as if he were a lunatic. “That proves nothing.”
“All right.” He grabbed the small mirror he’d been using earlier to shave and dragged the ruby over the glass, then offered it to her. “What do you see?”
Her nose scrunched. “Nothing.”
“Exactly. A true gem leaves behind no colour whatsoever. Paste jewels always do.”
Something behind the woman’s eyes moved. Conscience, perhaps? Was she finally realizing there was naught to be gained by keeping up this charade? Behind her, the maid stood silent, wringing her hands. How intertwined were the two?
She set the mirror down on the table. Her white teeth toyed with her lower lip for a moment, then she lifted her face to his. “How would you, a professed member of Parliament, know so much about rubies?”
“Prison was an education, in more ways than one.” His free hand curled into a fist. Nine months of that nightmare had taught him the depravity of man. He’d learned of vices and crimes and things he’d rather not have known from the boasts and confessions of fellow inmates.
She set her jaw. “I still don’t believe you.”
“Nor I you. Have you a diamond?”
“Real or fake?” The lift of her brow mocked.
He ignored it, bent on proving he was right—the one thing that’d kept him alive thus far. “The only thing strong enough to cut a ruby is a diamond.”
“Well, I am sorry to disappoint, but I have no diamonds, genuine or otherwise.”
“Fine. This will have to do.” He shoved his hand into his other pocket and produced the straight razor, then flipped out the blade and ran the steely edge across the gem.
The woman gasped. The maid drew near. The dog moved to sit at his side. Oliver held out the ruby—the unmarked ruby.
She bowed over the thing, as did the maid, then straightened and folded her arms. Her lips slanted into a defiant line. “Again, that proves nothing.”
Blast the stubborn woman! “It proves these are real!”
Silently, the maid fumbled at her neck, both hands at her nape. She unclasped a tarnished chain and pulled out a small,
golden ring tethered to it. Her dark eyes bored into his as she held it out to him. A question? Or a threat?
Either way, he took it from her. The thin band was worn. Old. An heirloom of some sort. Her mother’s, perhaps? At the center, a tiny flake of diamond caught the sunlight and bounced it back. Was it big enough?
Worth a try. Holding the ruby in one hand, he sliced gem across gem, then held the ruby aloft. A clear, thin line ran diagonal where he’d scratched the surface near the edge in the most inconspicuous place possible. No sense willfully ruining such a valuable piece. Vindicated, he handed the maid back her ring and speared the little thief with a glower. “Now what have you to say?”
With a jaunt to her head, the woman unfolded her arms and reluctantly peered at the cut ruby, then frowned at him. “I’d say a diamond could as well cut paste as it could ruby.”
Blast! But the woman had a quick mind. He suppressed a grunt, hard-pressed to know if it stemmed from admiration or irritation. “Fine,” he conceded, then angled his head toward the window. “Follow me.”
He hobbled over to the glass panes, the rustle of women’s skirts just behind him, then swiped the ruby across the glass. A deep line etched where he ran it. Victory!
“Well?” He turned to her. “Can a paste replica do that?”
She backed away, shaking her head, until finally she reached for the sofa arm and eased herself down. “But… how can it be? How can it possibly…?”
Oliver gritted his teeth. Either this was an amazing act, or she was telling the truth. And, God help him, he was beginning to believe the latter.
But if she wasn’t the real thief, then how the deuce had the stolen necklace ended up here with her?
Closing his fingers over the jewelry, he hobbled to the adjacent chair and sat. “I think it’s time you tell me everything, Mrs. Dosett, or Daisy Lee, or whatever name you’re going by—and I mean everything—that brought you here to Morden Hall.”
Chapter Twelve
I turn the key over and over in my hand, avoiding the terrible stare of Mr. Ward. If the sofa were not holding me up, I’d surely be prone on the floor, such is the weakness his revelations have wrought. Is it true? Have I been hiding a necklace of immense wealth in a rude little closet smelling of tea?
“I hardly know where to begin,” I whisper.
Mr. Ward sighs, long and low. “How about we start with your name. Your real name.”
Slowly I rub the pad of my thumb along the smooth metal on the key’s shaft. Dare I unlock my true past to this man? Is it safe? Is he safe—a convicted felon? But… does it really matter anymore? He’s identified me. Perhaps safety had only ever been an illusion.
I lift my face, meeting the challenge head-on. “I am Margaret Lee, Maggie to those who know me best. Dosett was my mother’s maiden name.”
“And Daisy?”
The name rises like a spectre, and a shiver runs across my shoulders. I never liked the flower or the name. It was too flimsy. Too transient. Here today, gone tomorrow. My lips twist. Fitting, though. Just like my career. My family. My life. Had my manager been some sort of prophet to have called me such to begin with? Or in promoting me as the capricious flower, had he saddled me with a curse?
I wrap both hands around the key, willing my nerves to calm. “Daisy was a moniker for the stage, a nickname of sorts for Margaret.”
“Ahh… I see. Marguerite is French for daisy.” He nods, and a hank of his dark hair falls forward, covering the gash. He swipes it away, his hazel eyes catching the light and flashing more green than brown as he gazes at me. “I’m guessing you are not a widow, either.”
Fumbling with the chain on the key, I duck my head into the loop and secure the necklace back to its rightful resting place. “You are correct. I am not married and never have been.”
“Why the charade?”
“People pry less when they see a widow’s weeds.”
“An astute observation.” Once again the green flecks in his eyes flash, but this time not from sunlight. Is that gleam admiration or condemnation?
“But go on.” He shifts in his chair. “How is it you came to be here?”
I regret tucking my key back beneath my bodice. Now what am I to hold on to as I try to navigate the uncharted waters of his questions? How much should I tell? Or more importantly, how much should I leave out?
The beginnings of a true headache throb in my left temple, and I rub the ache while evading with a question of my own. “If I am not mistaken, you were present the night of my final performance, were you not?”
“I highly doubt it.” A bitter smile ghosts his lips. “The last social gathering I attended was at Ambrose Corbin’s estate, and that was some nine months ago now.”
“Yes. That was the night I fled.”
“Interesting.” He cocks his head. “Why do such a thing?”
His query drives me back in time, grabs me by the throat and forces me to witness that dangerous June evening when my world ended. I hold my breath, but though it’s been months, I can still smell the cloying scent of vanilla tobacco and too much cognac—Ambrose Corbin’s signature scent—one to this day I cannot seem to completely wash off my skin. Nor can I rid myself of the feel of him.
I cannot stop the coldness that hardens my tone. “You intimated of your time in prison, Mr. Ward. My former life was no less hellish.”
Both his brows shoot skyward, followed by a wince. “I highly doubt it, but please, explain.”
Of course he doesn’t believe me. Who would? By all accounts, I led a charmed existence, far from the deprivations suffered by paupers, and well I know it. I was not born to silver cutlery and porcelain china, but to the smell of old books.
“You think me mad, no doubt. Perhaps I am.” I suck in a breath and shake off the dismal thought. “Beautiful gowns, adoring audiences, invitations galore to opulent affairs… I do not deny my public life had its allure.”
I rise and skirt the sofa, putting the bulk of it between me and this man. “Yet it is an ugly truth that when a woman goes on stage, it is not her talents that are seen, leastwise not by men. I spent more time dodging pinches and stolen kisses than actually singing.”
Sorrow darkens his face. “I am sorry to hear it.”
I ignore his pity, for it is too little, too late. “The night of Mr. Corbin’s soiree was no different, save for the power of the man making the advance. Before my performance, he—” My throat closes. If I give voice to what happened, speak the threat aloud, it will breathe life into the monster all over again.
Mr. Ward rises, the lines of his jaw hardening to steel. “Did he hurt you?”
What’s this? A man actually caring about me? Laughter tastes bitter in my mouth. “Does it matter?”
“Of course! I meant it when I said justice means everything to me, and if you were harmed, then Corbin must be held accountable.”
I grip the back of the sofa to keep from tipping over, but just as quickly, my astonishment pales in the burning brilliance of reality. Powerful men like Ambrose Corbin will never be found liable, not for the likes of a woman.
“Suffice it to say, Mr. Ward, that I did not linger long enough after the concert for Mr. Corbin to enact his threats, and so you find me here.”
“No, there is more to it than that, I think. By your own admission, untoward advances are regrettably commonplace. One more would not cause you to flee.” He rubs the back of his neck before his gaze locks onto mine. “Exactly how did that scoundrel Corbin threaten you?”
A slow smile ripples across my lips. This man must be a force to reckon with on Parliament’s floor. “You are very perceptive, sir.”
“And you are evading the question. What did Ambrose Corbin say? What power does the fiend wield over you?” Ever so slightly, his fists shake at his side, keeping time with the pulse throbbing in a vein on his neck.
“You bear the man animosity yourself,” I observe.
“Perception is one of your virtues as well.” A small smile flick
ers, then fades. “But continue, if you please. I would know the truth.”
I pace the length of the sofa, running my fingers along the back of it to keep myself steady. It is better to focus on that than the words coming out of my mouth.
“The night of Mr. Corbin’s house party, he gave me an ultimatum. Either I accept his invitation to warm his bed, or he’d ruin my reputation and that of my father. That would mean not only the downfall of my father’s business, but a quick trip to the workhouse, which would be the death of him.”
Whirling, I pace back the other direction, shoving down the horrid image of my grey-headed papa locked in a cold stone institution. Though our relationship had never been marked by great affection, neither did I wish him such a horrid fate. Nor do I now. My self-inflicted exile has been worth the cost. May God continue to protect him and me despite the bounty for my return, the stolen jewels in my possession, and the hazel-eyed man whom I don’t know how much I should trust.
I push the melancholy thoughts aside and continue. “I figured if Mr. Corbin couldn’t find me—if I ruined my career before he had the chance—he’d leave my father alone. I fled that night with all haste, stopping only to retrieve my life savings.”
“Why come here? Why Morden Hall?”
“Why not?” I shrug. “It’s far from Bath. Remote. Isolated.”
“So is Siberia. You could’ve chosen anywhere in the world, and so I repeat, why here?”
I sigh, slightly irritated. The man is more determined than Malcolm with a mutton bone. “Very well, if you must know. My mother—God rest her—grew up not far from here. She painted such a vivid picture of the moor with her stories that, well… the pull of it was irresistible.”
There. I’ve said more than perhaps I should, but it is the truth, and here will I stand—which I do. I plant my feet and face Mr. Ward.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 9
