by Mary Balogh
“And I might have you charged as his accomplice,” Elizabeth added. “My memory loss certainly played into his hands, didn’t it? Prisoner in body and mind. How delighted he must have been. And what a fool you have both taken me for.”
“Elizabeth—”
“He took me away from the life I had made for myself at great pains and despite him,” Elizabeth said. “I was about to marry a good man. And he took me away from my responsibilities. When he snatched me away outside that church, he left a six-year-old child inside who would not understand why her mother had abandoned her without a word. He has made that little girl suffer for almost three weeks.
“And you, Nancy—you might have helped me but did not. Did it mean nothing to you that I was helpless in body and did not even have a memory to help me fight him? Can you not imagine what it is to be a woman at the mercy of a man’s whims? You must have known what has been happening between us for longer than two weeks. You would have to be blind not to have known. Yet you allowed it to happen, knowing that I believed myself to be his wife when I am not.”
“Elizabeth,” Nancy said, reaching out a hand toward her, “I am so sorry.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Strangely,” she said, “those words mean nothing to me. Nothing at all.”
She turned without another word and left the room. She hurried down the stairs in a frenzy again to be gone. Martin was waiting beside his carriage and handed her in. He jumped in after her, sat down on the seat across from her, and took both her hands in his. No one closed the door.
“Lizzie,” he said, “I am sending you on alone for the first stage of the journey. Your maid is going with you. She is just waiting for me to finish speaking with you and then will join you. And Macklin will be riding beside the carriage. He is a good man.”
She looked at him in some alarm.
“My coachman knows where to stop for the night,” he said. “I’ll be there by tomorrow morning. I’ll hire a horse and come after you. I must stay and talk with Trevelyan first. I have to make it clear to him that he must on no account make any attempt to follow you or to communicate with you. I must make him aware of the consequences if he is foolhardy enough to try.”
“Yes,” she said, squeezing his hands tightly. “Stop him from coming after me, Martin. I am afraid of him. I am afraid of what he will do.”
“Leave him to me,” he said.
“But, Martin,” she said, alarmed suddenly, “don’t hurt him. Please don’t.”
“Hurt him?” He smiled ruefully. “You know me, Lizzie. I could not bring myself to offer anyone bodily harm unless he were directly threatening you. Then I would do something, I suppose. But I don’t think he would do that. Now listen to me. I am going to take you to Kingston Park. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll explain everything to Papa and Lord Poole. I’ll see them when I go to London to fetch Christina. Then you will be able to relax and forget that you ever decided to try London again. We will be contented in the country again, the three of us, as we were before you grew restless. We were contented, weren’t we?”
“Yes,” she said, tears welling into her eyes. “How foolish I was to want to leave, Martin. Yes, take me back there. And you will look after everything? How wonderful you are. How would I ever manage without you?”
“You don’t have to,” he said, smiling and leaning across the gap between them to kiss her cheek. “Now, we will talk about it in more detail later. I can see you are anxious to be on your way. Take care, then, Lizzie. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He got to his feet, squeezed her hands before releasing them, and vaulted from the carriage. A minute later Doris had joined her, looking half frightened and half excited by this new adventure, and the carriage was on its way.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions. She concentrated on controlling the panic that she supposed would be with her until Martin arrived at the inn the following morning. And perhaps even then, Christopher would come after her, she thought, and he would force her to go back. Except that this time she would have to be a real prisoner. This time he would have to lock her up. This time there would be no pretense of love or marriage.
She needed Martin, she thought. She needed his good sense and his quiet affection and his strength. She wished he had come with her. And she wished they were well away from Devonshire and back at Kingston again. She always felt safe there. And at peace. She should not have left. She knew that now. Martin had tried to persuade her to stay and had even been prepared to stay with her indefinitely. But she had insisted. What a fool she had been!
And yet, she thought suddenly, she did not want to go back. Oh, back to Kingston, perhaps. It would be good to be there again, to be home again. But she did not want to go back to the way she had been after Christopher left her the first time, or after she had left him—it was hard sometimes to know who had left whom more decisively. She did not want to go back to being that weeping, cringing poor creature. There was terror in the very thought.
And if he thought he could destroy her by all he had done to her in the past few weeks, she thought, then perhaps it was time he was taught a lesson. No, she would not crumble. She would not!
Elizabeth turned her thoughts deliberately to her daughter, whom she had last seen before the wedding when she had sent the child on her way to the church. Christina had been rather tearful. She did not like Manley and was afraid of losing her mother’s love once this new marriage had been contracted. Poor Christina. She must have felt in these last weeks that all her worst fears had been realized.
Elizabeth felt a sudden ache of longing to see her child again. To see the daughter who had kept her sane six years before and perhaps throughout the years since.
Christopher came home somewhat earlier than he had the afternoon before. He had found himself quite unable to concentrate on work. He could not rid his mind of a strong sense of foreboding and an equally strong conviction that he should have stayed home for the day.
He did not really blame Martin for what had happened the day before, even though the two men had agreed that they would speak to her together about those years. She would inevitably have asked questions, of course, and Martin would have answered them. But he should have stayed with her himself to hear those questions and to contribute to the answers. Perhaps by now she had discovered more. Perhaps she knew that they were no longer married and had not been for more than six years. He spurred his horse on its way home.
Antoine was in the stables. He held the horse’s head while Christopher dismounted. “Trouble,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the house.
Christopher eyed him warily.
“She’s gone,” Antoine said. “Left this morning. Captain Rice”—he spoke the name contemptuousl—“is still ’ere. An evil one, that. One to be watched.”
A leaden weight settled low in Christopher’s stomach, but he showed no outward reaction. “Did she leave willingly?” he asked. “She was not forced, Antoine?”
“She was not forced,” Antoine said. “But ’e sent ’er on ’er way. Don’t trust ’im, m’sieur. I would trust the diable ’imself before I would trust ’im.”
Christopher left his horse in his servant’s care and turned his footsteps toward the house, his heart heavy. He had lost, then. He had lost his battle to prove his innocence to her even before he had started trying. There had not even been the chance to say good-bye. Just like the last time.
Martin was pacing the great hall when Christopher came through the doors. “Disaster, I’m afraid, Trevelyan,” he said.
Christopher closed the doors behind his back.
“Her memory came flooding back,” Martin said. “One minute I was talking with her in the house about nothing in particular, and the next she was rushing outside without even a cloak and ran all the way to the beach. By the time I caught up with her it had happened.”
Christopher clasped his hands behind his back and said nothing.
“I wanted her to stay,” Martin
said. “I told her that you wanted a chance to explain about seven years ago, and I tried to convince her that you acted purely from impulse and a concern for her well-being when you snatched her away from her wedding. But there was no talking with her, I’m afraid, no reasoning with her.”
Christopher nodded. I won’t stop loving you, Christopher. Don’t expect it of me. He could hear her speak those words just the night before, her voice urgent. But her memory had returned.
“She wouldn’t stay,” Martin said. “I would have had to force her, Trevelyan, and you know I would never do that. My concern for her had to come before my word to you. I hope you understand that.”
“Yes,” Christopher said. “I do. Why did you not go with her? Will she be safe alone?”
“I sent Macklin with her,” Martin said. “I’ll catch up with them tonight. I was tempted to go with her this morning, but it would have been the coward’s way out, I’m afraid.” He smiled, but it was an apologetic smile.
Christopher raised his eyebrows.
“I have to play the part of heavy-handed brother now,” Martin said. “I must, Trevelyan. You must realize that.”
Christopher did. He said nothing.
“But not just that,” Martin said. “Honest friend as well, perhaps. The sort of friend who must have the courage sometimes to tell brutal truths. I would like to be able to assure you that once she calms down she will realize that you did it out of love and that she still loves you. I don’t believe that will happen. I think it may take her as long to recover from this as it did for her to recover from what you did to her before.”
Christopher felt turned to stone. Not a muscle of his body or face moved.
“I would like to encourage you to go after her,” Martin said, “to try to explain. I don’t believe it would accomplish anything. Much as I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt, I don’t think you can hope to clear yourself of all those charges against you in the past. And there is no way of clearing yourself of guilt this time. If you will pardon me for calling a spade a spade, you are guilty of two of the worst offenses in our criminal code.”
“Two?” Christopher said.
“Kidnapping and rape,” Martin said. “With a bit of bodily harm thrown in. You are going to have to forget her, Trevelyan. There must be hundreds of women who would fall all over themselves for the chance to be your countess. You could have a happy life without Lizzie.”
“I don’t need you to offer comfort,” Christopher said.
“Sorry.” Martin flashed him a smile. “Habit, I suppose. I always feel sorry for people who are down even when I should consider them my enemies. I can’t quite think of you as my enemy. I used to admire you. You were quite a hero to my eighteen-year-old self when you met and married Lizzie. And I thought of you as a friend too. I think I was almost as hurt as she was when you fell off your pedestal. Though I suppose that is a damn fool thing to say. No one could have been as hurt as she was. I thought she would lose her mind.”
Christopher did not move.
“Now the heavy-handed brother part,” Martin said, clearing his throat and looking down at the tiles rather than into Christopher’s face. “I’ll have to tell Chicheley everything. I won’t hide the truth, Trevelyan, and I’ll make no excuses for you. For Lizzie’s sake I will tell the stark truth. You must know, then, that it would be dangerous for you to set foot in London for at least the next few years. I don’t think he will pursue you here. If he considers it, I will try to deter him. Our family does not need any more public scandal. But he will go after you if you try to come close to her. You would be fortunate to escape a noose. You do understand this and why I must do it, I suppose?” His eyes were anxious and troubled when he looked back into Christopher’s.
“Yes,” Christopher said, “I understand.”
“Well.” Martin drew a ragged breath. “I suppose there is nothing left to say, is there? I’ll be leaving immediately. I’m sorry, Trevelyan. I’m just sorry everything has turned out this way. I think you and I could have been really good friends. More important than that, I think Lizzie could have been happy with you if only you had been—oh, a little less impetuous, perhaps. Despite all the evidence, I can’t believe that there is any real vice in you. Well. I am talking too much. Goodbye.”
“Good-bye, Martin,” Christopher said. He stood to one side when he realized that Martin was not going upstairs but was all ready to leave the house. He must have sent his baggage on with his carriage. “Take care of her, will you?”
“I’ll always do that,” Martin said. He hesitated when he neared the door and reached out a tentative right hand. Christopher took it and they clasped hands for a few moments before Martin continued on his way out into the courtyard.
Christopher turned toward the stairs and climbed them slowly. He rang the bell when he reached his dressing room and instructed Hemmings that he was not to be disturbed for the rest of the day—not by anyone or for any reason.
He stood staring sightlessly out of the window.
I won’t stop loving you, Christopher. Don’t expect it of me.
If you will pardon me for calling a spade a spade, you are guilty of two of the worst offenses in the criminal code.
Kidnapping and rape.
Despair, he remembered now from an earlier occasion, could hurt as keenly as an open knife wound.
Elizabeth did not sleep a great deal, but then she did not expect to. She probably would not even have lain down if Doris had not been sharing her room and sleeping on a truckle bed at the foot of her own bed. In all fairness, Elizabeth could not expect her maid to share her sleepless night.
Surprisingly she did sleep in fits and starts. But always the coldness and the emptiness of the bed woke her, and the absence of an arm about her shoulders. Through twenty-five years she had slept alone except for the three months her marriage had lasted and except for the past two and a half weeks. And yet the emptiness of her bed troubled her.
For most of the night she lay awake, either staring upward at the shadows cast by the light in the inn yard on the ceiling or with closed eyes as if willing sleep to come. She tried to think of Christina and the happy reunion there would be when Martin fetched her from London to Kingston. Her child had been the main focus of her life, her main source of happiness for the six years since her birth. She ached to see her again.
But thinking of Christina, of her thin, solemn little face with its trusting blue eyes always brought Elizabeth’s thoughts back to Christopher. She thought of her very first meeting with him. She was in London at her first ball, eager and frightened. John on one side of her, splendidly handsome in his scarlet regimentals, Martin on the other, very youthful, very reassuring. He was smiling at her while John was eyeing the other ladies, a large number of whom were returning the compliment.
She could scarcely find the courage to raise her gaze from the floor, and it could not be said that gentlemen were flocking to sign her dance card, though of course there were acquaintances of Papa’s and John’s who had signed it out of a sense of duty and perhaps because they had been persuaded to do so. Martin had signed her card twice, John once.
And then she saw him. And jerked her eyes away again in confusion because he was looking directly back at her. She stole another look less than a minute later to find that he was standing in exactly the same place and that he was still staring at her. This time when she looked away she was careful not to look back again.
But she was left with the impression of a tall and slender and darkly handsome man. She felt her heart beating faster and she wanted to turn and run because if he was still looking at her, he was seeing a timid, blushing, gauche girl.
And then he was standing before her with their hostess and was being presented to her and to John and Martin and he was signing her card—not for the next set, which had been reserved by one of John’s fellow officers, but for the next after that.
Elizabeth turned onto her side and stared at the window. She wondered if
the light in the inn yard below was kept burning all night and if guests in this particular room ever found it possible to sleep. And yet Doris’s breathing suggested that she was deeply asleep.
He was not much of a conversationalist, and he did not smile as John did all the time when he danced, and he did not have the easy charm that Martin had even at the age of eighteen. But he watched her as they danced with eyes that were a pure blue, and he made her feel that she was the only woman in the room worth looking at. By the time they had finished dancing she was in love. As deeply and as irrevocably as only an eighteen-year-old can be.
She dreamed of him all night and sighed a little too because he had danced with her only the once and had said nothing about seeing her again. She had not known then that he would call the next afternoon to take her driving or that less than two months later they would be married.
Elizabeth’s eyes shut though she still saw the imprint of the window against her closed eyelids. She had loved him totally. She had been young enough to believe in knights in shining armor and in happily ever afters.
Yet all she had had left of that love after three months of marriage was heartache, and eventually a child who resembled him to an almost uncanny degree. Christina. She thought of how her daughter’s thin arms would twine about her neck when she came to Kingston and of how her mouth would pucker for a kiss.
At Kingston? Exile again? She would hide from the world all over again, nursing a broken heart, clinging to Christina for love and to Martin for support and strength and companionship? Would she? Was that what she really wanted? Was she capable of nothing better?
She lay determinedly still beneath the covers, wondering if morning would never come.
Morning did come eventually and with it Martin tapping on her door. Elizabeth flung herself into his arms.
Martin looked closely at her after they had exchanged greetings. “Lizzie.” His voice was concerned. “You have not slept, have you? There are shadows beneath your eyes. I don’t suppose you feel like breakfast either, do you? But don’t worry. I’ll have your maid bring up some laudanum and then we shall set out on our way and you can sleep with your head on my shoulder. I am with you now, and you need worry about nothing. Once we reach Kingston you will soon feel at peace again.”
